


Ashaya (Tehs-tor)

by Adenil



Category: Star Trek: The Original Series
Genre: Angst, Bachelor Party, Fake Marriage, Fake/Pretend Relationship, Flowers, M/M, Minor Character Death, Mutual Pining, Political Intrigue, Weddings
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-01-02
Updated: 2018-05-19
Packaged: 2019-02-26 15:40:36
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 14
Words: 57,762
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/13238859
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Adenil/pseuds/Adenil
Summary: Ashaya(noun)1. An intense feeling of deep affection2. A person or thing that one loves(verb)1. Feel a deep romantic or sexual attachment to someoneTehs-tor(verb)1. Cause someone to believe something that is not true, typically in order to gain some personal advantage2. Fail to admit to oneself that something is trueSpock and McCoy get fake-married but accidentally fall in real-love.





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

  * Translation into 中文 available: [Ashaya (Tehs-tor)](https://archiveofourown.org/works/14743376) by [aaamoon](https://archiveofourown.org/users/aaamoon/pseuds/aaamoon), [Adenil](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Adenil/pseuds/Adenil)



> Originally on Spiced peaches:  
> [Part 1 on Spiced Peaches](http://spiced-peaches.livejournal.com/64781.html).  
> [Part 2 on Spiced Peaches](https://spiced-peaches.livejournal.com/76666.html).
> 
> You can read this fic in Chinese [here](http://aaamoon.lofter.com/post/1eb5d730_12dd66d5) or [ on AO3 ](https://archiveofourown.org/works/14743376/chapters/34085237)courtesy of aaamoon!

“To return to love, to get the love we always wanted but never had, to have the love we want but are not prepared to give, we seek romantic relationships. We believe these relationships, more than any other, will rescue and redeem us. True love does have the power to redeem but only if we are ready for redemption. Love saves us only if we want to be saved.”  
― bell hooks, All About Love: New Visions  


_telik_  
( _adjective_ )

  1. having a spouse;
  2. united in matrimony;
  3. of or relating to the state of marriage;
  4. closely connected, united   



*

After many weeks of contemplation and meditation Spock came to the realization that the only logical course of action was to ask Dr. McCoy for his hand in marriage.

He researched the betrothal customs of the humans from McCoy’s regional homeland. The customs were surprisingly detailed and complicated, and not at all dissimilar from the customs on Vulcan. Unfortunately, his long meditation meant that time was not on his side. He would not be able to court McCoy for the requisite six months to a year in the company of friends and family, nor would he be able to ask McCoy’s parents for his hand in marriage. He would simply have to skip to the end. He obtained a bottle of Andorian Ale, as he knew that McCoy had recently finished the last of his supposedly-secret store, and replicated an understated silver betrothal band. He went to McCoy’s quarters during a time when he knew that the doctor would be neither busy nor unduly tired and rang the comm.

After a moment Spock could hear shuffling behind the door, and then McCoy appeared. He seemed surprised to see Spock; his reaction was understandable, as Spock had never before visited McCoy at his quarters, nor did the often spend time together outside of work.

“Spock? What the devil are you doing here? Is someone sick?” McCoy leaned out of the doorway and glanced up and down the corridor as if her might be able to spot the aforementioned ill crewmember.

“To my knowledge, no. I have come to discuss a different matter of some urgency with you.”

McCoy appeared skeptical. “But it’s not about the crew?”

“It is not,” Spock said patiently. “May I enter?”

“Sure, sure. Just let me…” McCoy began bustling around his quarters, which were somewhat untidy. Spock stepped through the open door and stood in the center of the room, watching as McCoy shoved the pile of books on the coffee table aside and straightened the pile of datapadds on the couch. “Sorry for the mess,” he said, laughing.

“It is no bother.” Spock held out the bottle of Andorian Ale. “I have brought you this.”

McCoy gaped at him. “Are you dying again?”

Spock frowned. “No.”

“Then this is...What’s happening here? Is this some kind of joke?”

Spock knitted his eyebrows together. “I do not joke.”

“No,” McCoy said, carefully considering the bottle as if it were a rabid tribble. “I suppose you don’t.” He accepted it delicately and whistled under his breath. “This is a fine vintage. This isn’t entrapment, is it? Andorian Ale may be legal in the Federation but I know we’re not supposed to have it on the ship.” McCoy did not appear to feel guilty. Rather, he looked as he often did when he was ready to begin fighting.

“It is not entrapment,” Spock said, still utterly patient. He hesitated before asking, “Doctor, may we sit?”

“Sure, go ahead.” McCoy gestured at the low couch and then began looking around for glasses. “Do you want some of this?”

“No thank you. My father’s race—”

“Yeah, yeah. It’s just polite to offer.”

“You may enjoy it.” Spock sat and observed the Doctor pouring himself a hearty glass of ale. McCoy twirled the glass and inhaled the scent before taking a small sip. He smacked his lips and let out a deep sigh as he plopped down beside Spock.

“Now, tell your Doctor what’s ailing you.”

“Dr. McCoy, will you marry me?”

McCoy blinked. He peered into his ale and sniffed it a second time. He drank the rest of his glass in one gulp and then poured himself another. “...Say that again?”

“Will you marry me?”

“That’s what I thought you said.”

McCoy stood and walked over to the far wall. He toyed with the statue sitting on the ledge, keeping his back turned to Spock. “Now, I know you don’t joke—”

“Correct.”

“—So it must be something else. Did you stop to smell any strange flowers recently?”

“I have not.” Spock was suddenly stricken with guilt, an emotion he ruthlessly controlled. “I apologize, Doctor. I recall that flowers are a standard gift during such proposals, however I neglected to bring you any.”

McCoy whipped around. “Are you possessed?” Spock shook his head. “Met any strange energy beings recently? Fallen and hit your head? Got a nasty shock? Had a near-death experience?” Spock negated each potential as McCoy stalked back across the room. “Mind-melded with someone evil? Got yourself split in two by the transporter? Are you really Scotty in Spock’s body?” Spock raised his brow at that, but again shook his head.

McCoy sat down heavily on the couch. “Then, Mr. Spock, I’m afraid I have to believe you’re honestly asking me that question.”

“Vulcans never lie.”

“Nor do they engage in hyperbole,” McCoy snorted.

“What would cause you to disbelieve your senses?”

McCoy snapped his fingers. “Good point! _I_ could be the one hallucinating. Here check my head. Do you see any bruising or discoloration? How are my pupils? Dilated? Wait, if you're an hallucination you won’t be able to give objective feedback...”

“Doctor.”

“I’m sorry, Spock, but what the hell do you expect me to think!? That the First Officer of the Enterprise who regularly takes me to task and has never shown me a lick of affection suddenly wants to _marry_ me? Me, the divorced hick from Georgia with my beads and rattles? Me, who couldn’t rub you the right way with a map and a compass? Me, who you regularly mock for my emotionalism, my inability to do my job, my _accent_ ? _Me_?”

Spock considered. “You frequently perform your duties as ship’s surgeon quite acceptably.”

“Oh, well that makes it all better, then. Forget I ever doubted you! Of course I’ll marry you! Should have seen it coming, really, with all the pigtail-dipping.” A strange cloud passed over McCoy’s face and his sarcasm abruptly dropped. “Is that what that was?” he whispered.

Spock did not understand the reference and so he ignored it. “I presume from your tone that you are not serious in your acceptance of my offer. Please, allow me to explain.”

“By all means.” McCoy waved his hand grandly and sat back against the couch, grinning manically into his drink. “Be my guest.”

“You are aware that I am a Prince?”

McCoy spluttered. “What? No, I was not aware.”

“Regardless, I am.” Spock considered how best to frame his predicament. “My father’s family has ruled over Vulcan for over eight centuries.”

“I wasn’t even aware that Vulcan had a monarchy.”

“Our political system is...complex. I believe that there can be no accurate comparison to any Earth system, past or present. That is a discussion for another time. Suffice to say, at this time action is required. Recently my father has taken ill. The healers believe he has perhaps two or three more years of life.”

“Oh, Spock.” McCoy reached out and placed his hand on Spock’s shoulder. “I’m sorry.”

Spock looked at the hand, and then back to McCoy, uncertain how to respond to the display. He decided to ignore and continue explaining. “...My mother is prepared to ascend as sovereign, but given her shortened life-span in relation to Vulcans, and her human heritage, the Vulcan Council of Law Making is understandably concerned as to her fitness to rule longterm. Further, my brother remains missing—”

“You have a brother?”

“—and he would not make a suitable ruler even if he were present. The council has therefore demanded that I take the necessary actions to become an acceptable sovereign immediately, so that I may be prepared for the event of my father’s death.”

“Stop fooling around with the Federation, in other words.”

“Indeed.”

McCoy considered. “And one of those actions is to get married?”

Spock was pleased that McCoy had followed the logic so readily. “Yes. Therefore we return to the question at hand: will you marry me?”

McCoy didn’t take the question any better the third time around. He balked and went back to staring at his drink. “Spock, this is all a little out of left field. We aren’t even dating!”

“Correct.”

“Don’t you have a...a sweetheart back home?” McCoy laughed abruptly. “Jesus, I bet T’pring is really kicking herself right now.”

Unbidden, an image of T’pring attempting to apply her foot forcefully to her backside sprung into Spock’s mind. The mental image was intriguing. “Perhaps,” he agreed. “Regardless, I have no ‘sweetheart’ on Vulcan. My advisors have prepared a list of people they deem suitable for marriage.”

“Well, there you go then. Pick one of them.”

“ _They_ deem them suitable. I do not. I find contemplation of a long-term partnership with any of them to be unacceptable.”

McCoy gulped visibly. “But not with me,” he said, not precisely a question.

Spock answered anyway. “Yes.”

“Spock, Jesus, it’s—okay, so, what’s wrong with the people on your list?”

“The council’s list,” Spock corrected. “Broadly speaking, they are all plants by the council to ensure that I follow their extremely conservative political wishes.”

“Oh.”

“Even were they not, I do not believe a partnership with any of them would be mentally stimulating, which is a requirement in a long-term relationship. While they are all intelligent people I do not believe we would have anything to talk about. Further, I have met very few of them. I require extended interaction in order to assess compatibility more fully. In the absence of data I must assume the null hypothesis holds true, and that we would be no more compatible than any two randomly selected individuals. Indeed, perhaps less compatible, as the council has a vested interest in sabotaging me. Finally,” he paused. “I do not wish to marry a Vulcan.”

“Why the hell not?”

Spock eyed him levelly. “An irrational, emotional impulse.”

McCoy grinned. “Boy, Spock, you really are petty.” He chuckled and ran his hand through his brown hair, messing it up. “I can’t believe you just admitted that to me,” he muttered. He cleared his throat. “Well, what about someone you already know? Maybe someone from your Academy days?”

“Although I was quite popular at the Academy—” He didn’t miss McCoy’s disbelieving eyeroll. “There is no one there who is suitable. Captain Pike, with whom I shared the most personal relationship, is currently on Talos IV and happily engaged in a monogamous marriage to Vina. You will find similar stories for all those I knew at the Academy.”

“I doubt they’re _that_ similar,” McCoy said, shaking his head as if to clear it. “Okay, then someone on the ship. Hell, what are you doing asking me? You should be down in Jim’s quarters right now. Unless…” His face fell into pity. “He already turned you down?”

“I did not ask Captain Kirk to marry me. You are my first and only choice.” He frowned as McCoy turned ashen at his frank words. “You must understand, Doctor, that this is no light burden I ask you to bear. My partner will be required to make regular excursions to Vulcan until such time as my mother wishes to step down, or unfortunately passes, at which point we will live on Vulcan full time save for diplomatic exercises.” He inclined his head. “Jim’s first love has been, and always will be, the _Enterprise_. The work he does here can be done nowhere else. However, the work of a doctor…”

“That can be done anywhere,” McCoy finished for him, shifting unexpectedly into anger. “Is that your logic, Spock? That my work is so unimportant that I can upend my whole life at your whim?”

Spock sighed. “I know that your work is important, Doctor. I would never presume to demand that you cease caring for the sick and injured. There is an additional reason I have asked you.”

McCoy bristled at his words. “And what’s that?” he asked sharply.

“You are a deeply empathetic man. Your compassion for other life forms is unmatched,” Spock explained, feeling it was very obvious. “I know that in the event of my death you would rule justly and fairly. That you would be considerate and caring and—dare I say— _humane_. You would do always what you believed is right.” He raised his brow. “Even if I might have disagreed with your assessment of the situation.”

McCoy fell utterly silent for a protracted moment, his jaw working fiercely as he considered Spock’s words. “I’m not saying yes,” he spat finally. “I just need some time to think about it.”

“Acceptable,” Spock said, standing. “I have prepared a briefing packed which I will forward to you immediately. I will require your final answer within seven days.”

“That quickly?” McCoy looked shaken.

“If I do not inform the council by then they will make the decision for me.”

“That’s—that’s coercion!”

“Yes.”

“What kind of logic is that?”

Spock arched his brow. “A highly efficient one.”

“God, fine. I’ll let you know in a week.” McCoy buried his face in his hands, muttering, ”And remind me never to answer the door for strange Vulcans in the middle of the night.”

Spock refrained from stating that it was only 1800 hours, nowhere near the middle of the night. “This is also for you,” Spock said, holding out the black velvet ring box.

McCoy took it as if it were a bug, holding it lightly between his thumb and forefinger. “What is…?” He opened it and stopped short, just staring.

“...If you decide against my proposal you may still keep it,” Spock said eventually. “It is a gift. Good day, Doctor.”

McCoy didn’t say a word, apparently too shocked to respond. Spock could feel McCoy’s stark surprise clinging to him as he left. He went back to his own quarters to meditate in anticipation of McCoy’s answer.

*

McCoy got royally (and wasn’t _that_ ironic) plastered on Spock’s Andorian Ale and dragged himself up three decks to ask Jim for advice.

“Spock has a brother,” he said, crying and blubbering all over Jim’s pajama top.

“He has a what?” Jim asked, dragging McCoy in from the corridor by his shirt collar. “Jesus, Bones, what’s happened to you?”

“...’m drunk,” he sobbed.

“That much is obvious.”

McCoy suddenly found himself horizontal. Thankfully, it had been intentional on Jim’s part and once his head stopped spinning he could see he was lying on Jim’s bed and staring up at the ceiling. “Why?” he asked rhetorically.

“Let me get you some water… I think I still have a spare sobriety hypo, too, from that time you bet me I couldn’t outdrink Scotty.”

“You still owe me,” McCoy whined.

Jim glared at him—the rude man—and then left McCoy’s field of vision. McCoy quickly grew tired, too exhausted from the night’s events to keep his eyes open. He dozed until Jim came back and jabbed him in the neck with the hypo.

“Ow,” he said weakly.

“Serves you right. Now sit up and drink this.”

McCoy obeyed, still slightly woozy. He’d drunk too much for the hypo to completely detoxify his system, although now he only felt vaguely buzzed as opposed to nearly unconscious. He drank the water and then ate a little packet of crackers Jim gave him. His stomach felt better. His head still hurt.

“Now what’s this about Spock’s brother? I didn’t even know he had one.”

“Neither did I,” McCoy said miserably. “There’s a lot about Spock I didn’t know before tonight. Like the fact that he wants to marry me.”

“What?” Jim raised both eyebrows at him. “Bones, are you serious? How much did you have to drink?”

“This was before I started drinking. Well, concurrent with it, anyway.” He flopped back on the bed and threw his arm over his eyes dramatically before telling Jim the whole story.

Jim listened quietly. He stayed quiet long after McCoy had finished relating the sorry tale. “...A fake marriage for political reasons sounds like the sort of thing you shouldn’t tell your Captain about, Bones.”

“That’s unhelpful.” McCoy took the rectangular pillow and smacked Jim with it. “Anyway, as if we would ever try to keep a secret from you.”

“You flatter me.” Jim lay down beside him so that they were both staring up at the ceiling sideways on the bed, legs hanging off the edge, their toes touching the ground. “What are you going to do?”

McCoy pressed the pillow against his face in the hopes of suffocating himself. “I don’t know,” he said, muffled.

“What?”

He threw down the pillow. “I don’t know! What the hell am I supposed to do?”

“Whatever your heart tells you, Jim said, and giggled inanely. “Bones, let’s look at this logically—no, don’t groan at me! You know it’s the best thing to do.”

“Fine,” McCoy said, yielding unhappily to the universe’s whims.

“Do you want to marry him?”

“Define ‘want.’”

“When you look at him do you think of flowers? Do birds start singing in the background? Do the ship’s air circulators pick up and flutter his hair? Do you grow all squishy inside?”

“No,” McCoy said testily, and somewhat guiltily, because he had an inkling that he noticed Spock’s hair fluttering more often than not. “But what does that have to do with marriage?”

“It’s a sign of love. And people who are in love often get married, Bones.”

“Not me,” he said, setting his jaw. “Tried that once before and it didn’t take. It’s better to just avoid the whole institution.”

“Well, then, it sounds like your mind is made up.”

“No, it isn’t!” McCoy waved his arms in the air and then flopped them back onto the pillow resting on his stomach. “It isn’t as easy as all that! If Spock had proposed to me out of...love…” He couldn’t believe what he had just heard himself say. “Then I could say ‘no’ with impunity. But this? This isn’t even close to that.”

“No, I’d say it isn’t. Is it better to marry out of love, friendship, or politics?”

“Stop philosophizing.” McCoy recognized that tone in Jim’s voice and cut it off quick.

“How about this, Bones: Why would you _not_ want to marry him?”

“I’ll have to spend time with him, for one thing.”

“Will you?”

McCoy opened his mouth and shut it again, considering. “I don’t know. I suppose for political events, diplomatic meetings. Spock might want to move in together to keep up the charade.”

“But I can put you on a later shift so you won’t have to see him constantly, if you don’t want to.”

“And in a few years...The idea of having someplace to retire to to is appealing. I’m sure I’d have access to resources on Vulcan I can’t even dream of here. Did you know they have the largest medical library in the quadrant?”

“And what’s wrong with spending a little time with Spock?”

McCoy turned to glare at him, because it was so _obvious_ , but Jim wasn’t looking at him. McCoy frowned at his profile instead. “We fight.”

“You debate,” Jim countered. “Given what you just told me Spock considers that a vital characteristic in a mate.”

“Don’t say that. The idea that we’ve been doing something that half-ways counts as a flirtation on Vulcan without my knowledge for the past three years is too much for me.”

“I thought pigtail dipping was an Earth tradition?”

“And _anyway_ ,” McCoy said sharply, not at all liking Jim’s smirk. “We’re just too different to make it work. I’m beautiful, intelligent, handsome, creative, emotional, and smart and he’s a wall of ice.”

“Let it never be said you lack self-confidence, Bones.”

“All I’m saying is we get along like a bag of cats. I’m not even attracted to him, physically.”

Jim looked skeptical of that, but he wisely said nothing about it. “Did he even imply that you would have to be?’

“I suppose, for appearances…”

“That may not be the case. His advisors want him to get married to people he’s never met. They aren’t expecting a lurid romance; they’re expecting someone who can rule their planet.”

“That’s the other thing. What makes him think _I’m_ the right guy to send in to talk to the stuffed-shirts? I’m a doctor, not a diplomat! I don’t even know which fork goes where at the dinner table! I’ll have them running for the hills before you can say ‘acerbic temper.’”

“Maybe that’s part of why he wants you. And you _are_ capable of being charming.”

“Southern charm is just sarcasm you don’t recognize,” McCoy muttered. But he considered Jim’s words. The thought of shocking some dry, boring Vulcan diplomats did give him a perverse pleasure. “I’ll have to live on that hot, godforsaken planet,” he tried feebly.

“Not for a long time. And Amanda Grayson has done it for years and doesn't seem any the worse for wear.”

McCoy had run out of complaints for the moment. A soft silence settled over them as he contemplated the situation. The chance to meet Amanda again interested him, although becoming her son-in-law was mildly terrifying. He knew he’d probably meet T’pau again, too—which was doubly terrifying because the last time they’d met he’d lied right to her face and faked a murder. Sure it had been for a good cause, but he didn’t know how Vulcan’s felt about that sort of thing. His mind wandered from there to imagine what their wedding would be like. He pictured Spock is a satin white veil, brown eyes downcast. McCoy dropped his hand to his pocket and rubbed at the ring he had placed there. Spock’s ring. Spock’s ring for _him_.

“The real question is,” Jim said suddenly, snapping him out of his reverie. “Do you think you can handle meeting whoever Spock’s advisors wind up picking for him and thinking ‘that could have been me?’”

McCoy grunted, but Jim did have a point. “As much as I dislike the poor bastard, I don’t want to see him forced into a marriage he doesn’t want. Although that’s basically happening either way I’d rather it be someone he knows he can deal with.”

“Damned compassionate of you, Bones,” Jim said, perhaps unwittingly echoing Spock’s earlier words.

And that was the biggest issue, wasn’t it? The fact that if he went through with this he might have the weight of an entire world resting on his shoulders. All those billions of people wanting him to do what was right. Every soul (or katra, or whatever Vulcans wanted to call them) wishing for an equal chance. Could he handle that kind of responsibility?

He decided that no, he probably couldn’t. Not without a lot of work. But he’d never trusted anyone to try half as hard at helping people as he did. Even if he didn’t know exactly _what_ to do he _would_ always try to do the right thing. He wasn’t sure he could trust anyone else to do that.

“God dammit,” he said, and buried his face in the pillow again, “I accept.”

“What?”

McCoy smacked Jim with the pillow and bellowed at the ceiling, “I accept!”

*

“I am pleased to hear that, Doctor. We can begin wedding preparations immediately.”

“Wedding preparations?” McCoy asked faintly.

Spock arched his eyebrow. “I assume you studied the briefing packed I prepared?”

“Well, I skimmed it. Read the important parts. Headings and such.” McCoy glared. “I didn’t open it. It was six-hundred pages long! Just give me the highlights.”

Spock took a bite of his tempeh-and-cheese sandwich and chewed thoughtfully. McCoy had sat very closely to him in the cafeteria and Spock had to lean slightly away from him in order to see him clearly. McCoy was also whispering and glancing around furtively.

When Spock spoke he kept his voice at its usual volume. “I now have six days before I must inform the council of my choice of partner. It is necessary that we become married in the Earth tradition before that time. Although they will not see the wedding as legally binding it should be sufficient to obtain a blessing from T’pau, and it will be considered an act of good faith and evidence enough that we are indeed in love. Until we can divert our course to Vulcan for a traditional ceremony it will have to suffice.”

“You want to...here? On the _Enterprise_? Where everyone can see?”

“Yes, Doctor.”

McCoy sat back and frowned at his uneaten protein cubes. “I don’t know about this.”

“Which aspects of my proposal concern you?”

“The ‘where everyone can see’ part. Spock, what about a nice quiet ceremony? We can get Jim to do it in his quarters.”

“We will require at least one witness.”

McCoy brushed his thumb over his bottom lip, considering, and then said, “We’ll ask Christine. She’s the only one I feel obligated to inform, anyway, and I know she can keep a secret.”

“You realize that this information will spread quickly.”

“Yeah, to Vulcan. But we’ve already established that no one here has any idea what goes on over there. You Vulcans are more tight-lipped than an Aldebaran shellmouth.”

“We do not often find occasion to ‘gossip,’ as you might say.”

“Okay, we can get the paperwork around tonight and schedule a time with Jim. I’ll let Christine know right now.” McCoy stood and gathered up his leftover cubes. He glanced around and bit his lip.

“Agreed, Doctor,” Spock said, still not seeing any reason to whisper. “And please avail yourself of the briefing packet.”

“I’ll do that,” McCoy said absently. “See you tonight, Spock.”

Spock watched as McCoy walked across the room and deposited his uneaten lunch in the receptacle before leaving. Spock went back to his sandwich, finishing it quickly before departing himself. He had duties to attend to.

He nodded to an Ensign, who was staring at him, on his way out. He thought nothing of it.

*

“Good Lord,” Ensign Mulcahy said to anyone who would listen. “You will not _believe_ what I just overheard in cafeteria.”


	2. Chapter 2

“Christine, are you busy? I have something I need to tell you...”

She looked up at him, blue eyes round with surprise. “I recognize that tone. Is something the matter?”

“Just sacrificing myself for the greater good, as usual,” he grumbled. “Let’s discuss this in my office.”

They went in and McCoy turned the door to privacy mode. He could feel Christine frowning at him. He sat at his desk and fiddled with the stylus there, wishing he had eaten more at lunch. He was damn hungry.

“Are you dying again?” Christine asked skeptically.

“No! No, I’m not dying.” McCoy winced. “It’s just...what I’m about to tell you might come as a bit of a shock.”

She set her jaw in defiance.

He continued haltingly, “I know that you’ve always had a certain...fondness for Mr. Spock, so this is hard for me to say. But I feel that you’re more than just my nurse, and I hope that I’m more to you than just your boss. You’re a good friend to me, Christine, and I really feel it’s important that you find out from me right now rather than years down the line.” Christine was starting to look confused, and McCoy began to talk faster. “You have to understand that I never expected this to be happening! I mean, me? Can you believe it? I was perfectly happy going about my life unattached after my last, well,  _ you _ know how it is to have a partner who you grow apart from. Whether it’s distance or killer androids, the effect is the same. And my last serious relationship lasted two days and was in the middle of me dying.” Now Christine was looking nervous, and McCoy choked. “So, well, uh, I suppose there’s no way I can sugar coat it, so I’ll just come right out and say it…” He took a deep breath. “Spock and I are getting married.”

“Oh, that.” She waved her hand. “I already knew.”

“What? McCoy squeaked. “When the hell did you hear about it?”

“Technician Chen told me, and she heard it from Lieutenant B’aela who heard it from Ensign Sun who spoke to Yeoman Rand who heard it right from Ensign Mulcahy who overheard you and Mr. Spock talking about it in the cafeteria.”

“I just came from there! How does information travel so quickly on this damn ship?”

“Gossip is the only thing that can move at warp 10,” Christine commiserated. She reached over the desk and rested her hand on McCoy’s knobby wrist. “It’s really very kind of you to want to preserve my feelings, but I’m not upset. I may have had a crush on Mr. Spock, and even entertained some fantasies about a life together, but I’m a big enough person not to let this get in the way of our friendship. That’s the most important thing to me.”

McCoy relaxed at her words, smiling sadly. “That’s sweet of you to say, Christine.”

“And anyway,” she said, sitting back and shrugging. “Who am I to stand in the way of love?”

“Love,” he choked. “Right. I, um, the other reason I wanted to talk to you is because I wanted to ask you to be our witness at the ceremony. It’s just going to be a small get-together at Jim’s quarters.”

She looked at him like he was an idiot. “I’d be honored to witness for you, of course. But if you think that you’re going to be able to maintain a small ceremony now that it’s the ship’s latest scuttlebutt, I’m afraid you’re going to be disappointed.”

McCoy winced. He hoped Christine was wrong, just this once.

*

Christine had not been wrong. 

“I don’t need a goddamned bachelor party!”

Jim cackled, the bastard, utterly immune to McCoy’s usually-deadly glare. McCoy mentally drew up a month of check-ups and inoculations for the captain. Hell, while he was at it, he might as well have the whole crew suffer with him. Physicals for everyone! 

Jim, Scotty, Sulu, Chekov, and about two dozen others had all kidnapped—literally, bag over his head and everything—him from Sickbay at the end of his shift. They dragged him down to Engineering which was currently decorated with streamers and “Happy Marriage! (damn, Bones, you’re gonna get hitched)” banners galore. Scotty had even dusted off his still and placed it prominently in the center of the room. 

Over the past few days some of the fervor over his and Spock’s upcoming nuptials had died down, and McCoy had (rather naively, he now realized) hoped that the whole thing would blow over. No such luck.

“Where’s Christine?” McCoy grumbled. “I’m surprised she isn’t in on this.”

“She would have been, but someone needed to put together Spock’s party. And who better than your sole witness?” Jim clapped him on the back and his grin increased in brightness by three orders of magnitude. “She, Uhura, and Rand have some...interesting events planned. All Vulcan-Kosher, of course. M’Benga made sure of that. But,” Jim winked. “You’ll have to ask him tomorrow after the ceremony.  _ If _ you get around to talking, that is.”

McCoy grumbled and groused and growled until Scotty had the intelligence to shove a tall glass of warpshine in his hand. He took it thankfully and downed the whole thing, knowing that he would need a little liquid courage to make it through the night.

Blessedly, his “friends” (and he used that term very loosely) had forgone the standard penis-shaped-everything theme. Instead, they’d managed to find ear-shaped things. There were chocolates in the shape of ears and someone had scrawled an ear onto the side of the warp coil. McCoy had a feeling that Scotty hadn’t exactly approved of that little addition. The cake was a giant, pointed ear and everyone was wearing ear hats. McCoy refused to take one.

“This all seems a bit much,” McCoy said as he tossed the ear hat in the corner.

“Mr. Spock said it was alright,” Chekov told him, and handed him another drink instead. 

“Does he even understand what a bachelor party is?”

Chekov considered. “If he did not before, he will after tonight. I overheard Uhura requisitioning a chocolate cake ‘big enough that a humanoid could jump out of it’ from the chef.”

McCoy imagined the look on Spock’s face and grinned. “I’ll drink to that.”

At some point a technician McCoy didn’t recognize began an honest-to-god drinking game and things got a lot more interesting. Scotty drank half the engineering crew under the table while McCoy stood in the corner working his way through a tall plate of ear-shaped chocolates. 

“You all should know better,” he admonished one red shirt who was looking a little green around the gills. “You  _ work _ with the man. Don’t come crying to me with a hangover tomorrow.”

“I would never,” she said, and then went abruptly pale and excused herself.

The lot of them stood around and chatted and laughed until eventually Scotty, who was beginning to fray at the edges and was listing quite dramatically to one side, badgered him into telling the story of Spock’s proposal. Feeling caught off guard—they hadn’t exactly planned how to keep their stories straight—McCoy tried to tell the general truth. He left out the part about how it was all a sham, and a poorly conceived one at that, and added in a part where Spock got down on one knee and presented him with a bouquet of one dozen long-stemmed roses.

“Mr. Spock is such a romantic,” Chekov sighed dreamily.

“Aye,” Scotty declared, sniffling softly. “You’ve got yourself a keeper.”

“That’s beautiful, Bones,” Jim said and wiped a single glittering tear from his eye.

“Shut your damned mouths,” McCoy growled, blushing.

McCoy thanked his lucky stars that no one had hired a dancer. Eventually, though, Sulu got smashed enough to perform a little shirtless fencing and everyone got a kick out of that. They ate the cake and drank and laughed and talked and drank and chatted and then drank some more. Eventually McCoy started to relax. This wouldn’t be so bad, he thought as he looked out at the faces of all his smiling friends. It was nice to know they were happy for him.

Jim and Sulu took him home late—or was it early? Either way, his feet weren’t cooperating with the sluggish signals his brain was trying to send. The two laughed at him, rotten bastards, even though they couldn’t walk straight themselves. Finally they arrived at his quarters and Sulu managed to palm open the door so that the three of them could tumble inside.

Where Spock was sitting at the desk.

“Spock-o!” McCoy drawled, or maybe slurred. “How was the party?”

“It was a...unique experience,” Spock said very slowly.

Beside him Sulu cleared his throat. “Captain, maybe we should leave them to it?”

“Sound tactical reasoning, Mr. Sulu,” Jim agreed. He gently shoved McCoy down onto the couch and dusted his hands off. “Mr. Spock, Bones, I’ll see you two bright and early.”

“Indeed, Captain,” Spock said, and McCoy marveled at how deep and resonant his voice was.

By the time McCoy had gotten himself vertical again Sulu and Jim had already left, and Spock had walked across the room to sit beside him.

“Doctor,” he said, sounding oddly hesitant. “I have brought you this.”

He held up a faded blue flower which McCoy recognized as one of the Denobulan bluebells that Sulu had been cultivating. McCoy blinked and made a grab for it, missing the first time before finally closing his fingers around the thin green stem. It was silky, almost plasticine in his hands.

“A flower?” he asked needlessly.

“Yes. As I neglected to bring you one during my proposal I have brought you this now.”

“In my version of the story,” McCoy hummed, “You brought me a dozen long-stemmed roses.”

Spock arched his brow. “A curious gift. Roses are dangerous to handle, are they not? I hope this flower is a sufficient substitute. I visited the observation deck to examine the decorations prepared for tomorrow. When I saw this flower I thought of you.”

“So you stole it? There’s a thought.” McCoy chuckled at the mental image of Spock furtively skulking into the observation deck and absconding with a flower before anyone could see. He was having a bit of trouble sitting upright so he placed the flower on his coffee table. He sat back and leaned against Spock. Spock turned slightly into him so that he could rest his head on Spock’s chest. The pounding in his head lessened. “How was the—how was the party?”

“Acceptable. The amount of revelry was somewhat...intense.”

“Mm, I’m sure.” The room was still spinning and so he closed his eyes, letting his weight rest fully on Spock. Spock’s arm shifted beneath him and he felt the long splay of Spock’s fingers on the space between his shoulder blades. “What’d you do?”

Spock was silent a moment. “...There were many massages,” he said after a while. His voice was so quiet that McCoy could hardly hear him. He felt it more than anything. A gentle rumble in Spock’s chest. “I believe the chocolate cake had intoxicated me,” Spock observed with a hint of fascination in his voice.

McCoy grunted and pulled away enough to squint at Spock. “You don’t look drunk to me.”

“Yet I am,” Spock said simply. He hesitated, his dark gaze flitting across McCoy’s features. “As, it seems, are you.”

“Yeah?” McCoy breathed. He realized, belatedly, that their faces were very close. One wrong move and their noses would brush. If he lost his balance now they would...they might...well, lips might touch, was all. He pictured it for half a second, just a flash in his mind and the image made him giggle with pleasant embarrassment. “Does my drunkenness disturb you, Mr. Spock?” he asked, teasing. “You knew what you were getting when you decided to marry me.”

“Indeed,” Spock said, sitting up suddenly and dislodging McCoy from his side. McCoy fell back against the couch. “That is what I have come to discuss with you. I have had time to consider the events which have transpired over the past week, and I believe I have been hasty in my actions.”

McCoy missed Spock’s warmth. “Hasty?”

“And selfish,” Spock confirmed. His gaze dropped to the ground and he sighed deeply. “I should not have placed you in such a position. To ask you to give up your entire life for me—”

“Spock, shut up for a second.” McCoy sat up. He had to use Spock’s stoic body for support to avoid tipping off the couch entirely. “We already decided I don’t have to give up my entire life.”

“Not at the moment, but eventually—”

“Eventually nothing! I’ll get to move to Vulcan and have access to the greatest medical library in the quadrant. Hardly a hardship on my part. Spock, I made my decision,” he said kindly. “You’re just experiencing pre-wedding jitters. Totally normal. I had them before my wedding with Jocelyn.”

“Jitters?” Spock asked, his eyebrows crinkling together. “I have never felt ‘jitters.’” 

McCoy mightily resisted pointing out that a broken bowl of plomeek soup and a week of sulking disagreed with that statement. 

Spock continued, “It is merely that I have had time to logically assess the situation. Your...compassion, which is what initially drove me to ask you for your hand I believe has also enticed you to accept my proposal despite it not being in your best interest.”

“And what the hell do you know about what’s best for me?”

“A great deal.” Spock’s hand was suddenly covering his, gripping him tightly. “It was an unkindness of me to ask you to rescue me from this situation. I must return to Vulcan and accept the decision of the law-making council.”

“Like hell you will.” McCoy managed to get a grip on a handful of Spock’s tunic. “You and I are getting married tomorrow whether you like it or not! Understand?”

Spock frowned. “Doctor—”

“No. No more trying to martyr yourself. I’ve agreed to it and I’m a man of my word.”

“For you to speak of martyring…” Spock trailed off and was silent a moment, just breathing. “There is an additional complication.”

“Of course there is.” McCoy sighed. “What is it?”

“I had initially believed that T’pau would accept that you were a suitable partner at my word. However, she does not. Because you are neither of noble blood nor well-versed in Vulcan politics, she deems you an unsuitable candidate for marriage. In order to convince her to accept you I… was forced to explain to her that we are in love. She believes my attraction to you is an illogical human weakness of mine, but nevertheless she will honor it.”

“So you lied to her.”

“I presented to her certain facts which she interpreted in her own way. Nevertheless, our charade would have to be that much more complex. It would not be sufficient for you to simply marry me and attend functions with me as an attentive husband. We must convince T’pau and the council that we are so in love that we cannot bear to be apart.”

McCoy gulped. “I can see what you mean about complications.”

“It is irresponsible of me to ask you to commit to such a charade. Therefore we must call off the wedding.”

“Just hang on a minute.” McCoy frowned. He realized after a moment that Spock was still holding his fist, which was still holding Spock’s shirt. He slowly relaxed his grip and turned so that their palms were together. He held Spock tightly. “It won’t be that difficult. From what I understand this, this right here, is considered a pretty provocative display of affection on Vulcan.”

Spock looked down at their joined hands. His brow furrowed. “You are correct.”

“If all we have to do to appear madly in love is hold hands, I think I can handle that.” He chuckled. “Spock, I know we argue and fight more often than we get along, but I can avoid biting your head off in front of other people at least until the council accepts us.” He grinned. “I’ll save that for when we’re alone.”

Spock let out a slow breath and closed his eyes. “There is nothing I can do to convince you?”

“Not unless you just refuse to show up tomorrow.” He winced. “Please don’t do that. I’d never get over the embarrassment of being stood up at the altar by a  _ Vulcan _ .”

“Very well.” Spock looked utterly defeated. “I will acquiesce to you in this instance.”

“Better get used to that,” McCoy teased. “Once we’re married I automatically get to win all the arguments.”

“I do not believe that is part of the marriage contract.”

“Call it an old Earth tradition.” McCoy grinned again. He realized they were still holding hands—that, in fact, he was rubbing his thumb over the back of Spock’s knuckles—and he quickly released his grip. He cleared his throat. “Now, listened. It’s late. I’m tired and still drunk. You’re tried and allegedly drunk. Let’s get some rest. We aren’t supposed to see each other the night before the wedding, anyway. It’s bad luck.”

“As that is a human superstition, at most we could say that we have acquired half of a bad luck.”

“Maybe three-quarters.”

Spock’s eyes softened—the Vulcan equivalent of an indulgent smile. “I shall leave you to your sleep, Leonard.”

His own name on Spock’s tongue shocked him. He felt a shiver run down his spine.  _ Leonard _ . Was Spock going to call him that from now on? All the time, or only in public? Except, the first time he’d said it, voice rich and thick as honey, had been  _ right now _ and there wasn’t another soul in sight.

Heart fluttering, he cleared his throat. “Right, uh. Thanks. You, uh, sleep well, too.” 

Spock nodded and rose, and now that McCoy was looking for it he could see that Spock was walking a bit  _ too _ stiffly. Maybe he really was drunk. “Goodnight,” Spock said softly.

“Night,” McCoy returned. He watched Spock go and then leaned back against the couch, telling himself firmly that tomorrow things would go smoothly. It wouldn’t be that bad.


	3. Chapter 3

It was that bad.

The observation deck had been expanded, or perhaps Scotty had installed some kind of space-folding device, because magically they had managed to fit what appeared to be the entire crew of the  _ Enterprise _ into the tiny space. Hundreds of chairs were set up in neat rows all pointing towards the altar, which loomed large in the center of the room. Every square centimeter of space was crammed with blooming flowers. Half were Denobulan bluebells matching the one Spock had given him. The other half were a green flower he didn’t know the name of but which had broad, ruffled petals that looked touchably soft. 

McCoy, nursing a hangover and a bad attitude, took all this in as he peeked out from behind the curtain. He frowned at the sea of people chattering amicably. He could see Jim standing at the altar grinning like a fool and he glared at him. Jim didn’t notice.

“You’re looking sour.”

McCoy pulled away from the curtain guiltily and tried to smile at Christine. “So much for my small, private ceremony.”

She smiled back and stepped forward to adjust the flower pinned to his shirt so that it sat straight. “Not a lot happens out here that’s truly  _ good _ , Leonard. We all want to see it when it does. Plus,” she patted him on the shoulder, “We’re your family. We like you and Mr. Spock and want to be here to send you off into the next step of your relationship.”

Next step. McCoy had the thought that they had missed a few dozen steps in between. He felt suddenly vulnerable, like a frayed nerve exposed to open air. “Thanks, Chris,” he managed to say, his voice scratchy. He cleared his throat. It must have been a side-effect of his hangover, he decided. 

“Don’t mention it.” Her smile grew. “Just remember how much you love me when you open my wedding gift.”

“Your what?” McCoy asked, and then had the sinking realization that he and Spock had never put together a gift registry. They hadn’t even thought about it, which meant they were about to get a pile of things they didn’t need—or worse, things that the crew _ thought _ they needed. And if Christine’s sly grin was any indication those things would not be good.

He opened his mouth to protest just as the opening notes of  _ Here Comes the Bride _ began in earnest. McCoy panicked at the sound of Scotty’s bagpipes. “How do I look?” he demanded, running a hand down the front of his shirt and knocking his flower askew.

“You look fine.” Christine fixed it for him again. McCoy watched her, thinking of how the little flower had looked sitting on his coffee table this morning. It had seemed lonely. He remembered the way it had looked wrapped up in Spock’s long fingers. McCoy had figured that he might as well have a boutonniere, but now he was regretting that decision. It caught on everything...and what if Spock thought it was weird? 

There was no time to do anything about it because suddenly Christine was linking arms with him and dragging him from behind the curtain. He tripped but Christine steadied him, and then they were walking up the aisle.

Each step was an eternity. He could feel everyone’s eyes on him, staring. The bored into him. His ears rang with panic and he could no longer hear the music. In front of him Sulu was scattering blue and green flower petals on the ground. He cast his gaze sideways where Chekov was doing the same, leading Spock and Uhura down the other aisle. He couldn’t get a good look to see how Spock was handling the pressure without craning his neck like an idiot, so he looked back to the altar and tried to walk carefully and evenly. Christine was a comfort at his side and he realized that he wouldn’t have been able to make it without her. She patted his arm reassuringly and he stood a bit taller. 

It took them a thousand years to walk down the aisle. McCoy thought they would never reach the end, and then all of a sudden there they were. Jim was twinkling at him and he sent back his best glare in return, but it wasn’t too successful since he was having a mild panic attack. Christine turned him subtly so he was standing in the right spot, and then he was looking at Spock.

His breath caught.

Spock looked...radiant. His brown eyes were glowing honey gold in the light and he was wearing a crown of those green flowers. The petals rested softly against the tips of his ears and the color made him appear flushed with a healthy glow. He looked calm. At peace. So much so that McCoy felt his own panic settling in response. Spock still wanted this, he realized giddily. Spock still wanted to marry him.

His ears rang, drowning out the sound of Jim prattling on about a Captain’s greatest privilege, or something. His head was spinning. Then Spock was reaching out to take his hand, repeating what Jim was saying, and McCoy thanked every deity in existence that Jim had thought ahead and realized that they hadn’t prepared their own wedding vows.

“I, Spock, in the presence of our friends, and the universe, as witnessed by all who take notice of such acts, take thee to be my husband. I betroth myself to you forever; I betroth myself to you in righteousness and in justice, in logic and in mercy.”

“I, Leonard McCoy,” he started, and then had to gulp in desperation. He was shaking, he realized, and then he felt Spock’s hands tighten around his. Steadied, he went on, “In the presence of our friends, and family, and the universe, take thee to be my husband. I betroth myself to you forever; I betroth myself to you in righteousness and in justice, in love and in mercy.”

It was only after he finished that he realized Jim had made him say something slightly different. Before he could contemplate that Spock was already slipping the silver band onto his finger. It was still warm from Spock’s touch and it settled so perfectly against his skin that he knew Spock must have spent hours measuring it and crafting it specifically so it would fit. Next, because Vulcans didn’t wear rings, McCoy took the necklace he had prepared instead. At least this was one thing they  _ had _ thought ahead about. Spock bowed and McCoy carefully slipped the necklace around his neck, cautious not to disrupt the lovely flowers. His thumb still brushed over the petal by the curve of Spock’s ear. He was right. They were touchably soft.

“You may now kiss the groom,” Jim said, grinning like a damn fool, and then elbowed McCoy in the side.

McCoy nearly tipped forward and actually planted one on Spock’s (also touchably-soft looking) lips, but he stopped himself at the last second. They’d agreed that the Vulcan kiss was sufficient and so he presented his two forefingers. Spock met his touch, featherlight, and McCoy felt an odd infusion of warmth and contentment, like puzzle pieces falling into place, underlaid by a subtle burning concern. A feeling of pride, or perhaps serenity. Before he could parse out the sudden rush of emotion Spock’s touch was gone and he was left alone again.

The crew erupted into wild applause and, by god, they were married. McCoy nearly fainted right then and there.

*

The cheers of the crew were deafening as Spock took McCoy’s hand and lead him to deck six. They endured a rather confusing ritual of being pelted with uncooked  _ Oryza sativa _ along the way. 

Deck six had been cleared to make room for mingling and there were rows of tables along the wall covered in various dishes of food. There was also copious alcohol. Spock had presumed that having an afternoon reception would temper the crew’s desire to indulge in intoxicating beverages. He was wrong. The crew poured champagne into tall, fluted glasses and cheered. Spock soon learned that each time one of the crew began clanging a piece of silverware against the side of their glass he was expected to kiss McCoy. He did not find it disagreeable. In fact, it was logical to kiss McCoy often. They would soon be required to kiss one another with the ease of long practice in front of dozens of discerning Vulcans. It was logical that a few finger-kisses throughout the afternoon would aide them in maintaining the charade.

Purely logical.

Spock was also pleased to find that the generalized panic he had noticed in McCoy faded throughout the reception. When they had first kissed as husbands Spock had felt a rush of chaotic anxiety through the touch. He tried to steady McCoy’s turbulent emotions throughout the day and gradually McCoy relaxed. Soon, each time they touched Spock felt nothing but warm contentment. Spock felt illogical pride at having instilled the emotion in McCoy. Although, it may also have been a result of the bourbon McCoy was enjoying.

The chef soon brought out a tall cake—vanilla, thankfully— and Spock managed to convince the Captain that feeding McCoy from his hands would be considered a sexual gesture unfit for public spectacle. After a protracted discussion the crew compromised and he was allowed to feed McCoy from a fork. McCoy had no such compunctions, however, and promptly shoved an entire piece of cake into Spock’s face. Spock blinked, accepted his fate, and then seeing that the spectacle had already begun (it was imaginary, anyway) returned the favor. McCoy spluttered quite interestingly as he wiped frosting from his cheeks.

The crew had cheered them on and wildly rung their glasses, eliciting another kiss from them. Spock had the wild urge to help McCoy clean that stray bit of frosting from his lip, but he assumed the mental image was merely a result of his incomplete mediation cycle the night before.

After the food and drink had been exhausted the dancing began. The crowd cleared and suddenly he was alone with McCoy.

“Our first dance,” McCoy said, chuckling softly.

“Yes,” Spock agreed. It was their first dance both literally and metaphorically. He stepped into McCoy and lifted his arms. McCoy met his touch. For a moment there was tension as they both tried to lead but then McCoy relaxed into his arms. They seemed to flow together. 

Spock had been concerned, at first, that he would not be able to recall the dances of his childhood. But as they began to move that concern melted away. There was no need for detailed steps or formulaic motions. He merely held and was held in turn. McCoy trusted him to lead, and so he lead in time with the music, swirling them slowly in the center of the dance floor, his eyes locked to McCoy’s sparkling blue gaze.

When the music faded Spock did not wish to pull away. Another error in his logic as a result of his missed meditation, no doubt.

But pull away he did and into the arms of Chapel as Uhura and McCoy began to dance a few meters away. 

She was smaller than McCoy and Spock held her awkwardly. It was different than dancing with McCoy had been. Their dance felt like an imitation. He thought back to that moment in his quarters those years ago when he had almost asked for her assistance in getting through the  _ pon farr _ . He was glad now that he had not, but it was only with the benefit of hindsight that he knew the situation would resolve positively. At the time he had been terrified. Not in control.

He felt a bit of that again now.

“You’re a good person, Mr. Spock,” Chapel whispered to him as the music picked up.

Spock concentrated on his steps, saying nothing. 

She grinned at him. “Feeling modest? It’s true, you know, even if you don’t feel it. It’s what’s always drawn me to you. I’m happy to be your friend now. I just wanted to say…” She trailed off and Spock thought she wouldn’t finish the thought, but then, “Leonard is my friend, too. And he’s quieter about his love than I could ever be, but he still feels it. Please, be kind to him. I know you’re capable of it.”

Spock’s head was spinning with her words. There was something there, some human subtext he could not quite compute that made him suspicious. He wanted to ask her how much she knew—had McCoy told her their relationship was a ruse? But before he could say anything the song ended and he was spun away into Jim’s arms.

Jim neatly picked up the thread of Chapel’s conversation, although Spock knew he couldn’t have heard what was being said. “I know the whole story,” Jim whispered, too low for human hearing but just loud enough that a half-Vulcan could pick out his words. “So I know you’re both going into this with eyes wide open. But humans are funny, Spock. We feel things we don’t mean to. We get ideas in our head that we can’t shake. I need you to promise me you won’t hurt him the way she did.”

Of course. McCoy’s ex-wife. Spock knew little about her save for what information was in McCoy’s service record. He realized belatedly that he should have asked long ago, and then felt a pang of guilt as he realized that Jim  _ did _ appear to know the details. McCoy’s painful history with marriage made his proposal even more uncouth. But it was far too late now.

The music ended again and Spock met eyes with his captain. The crew’s concern for McCoy was admirable. He thought of Chapel’s words, and M’Benga’s advice to him the night before. He nodded. “I promise, Jim.”

Jim smiled. “Just so you know, I intend to make him promise the same thing.”

Spock considered how this must feel for Jim; his two best friends getting married without him. He thought that Jim was being incredibly fair with his concerns. “I understand.”

After that things became more relaxed. Mr. Scott took command of the dance floor and taught them all an interesting group dance called a  _ cèilidh _ , which was remarkably like the box step. Or so McCoy claimed as he ecstatically attempted to teach the crew  _ that _ dance. There was a great deal of tripping over feet as everyone laughed and confused the two dances, and half of the crew had apparently transmogrified their feet from right to left (if Spock was to understand McCoy’s hasty explanation correctly). Spock tolerated this excitement. When Uhura pointed out he was smiling he gently corrected her error.

It was extremely late by the time he and McCoy found their way back to his quarters— _ their _ quarters. It still caused cognitive dissonance to think about. During the wedding and reception Mr. Scott’s engineering team had been hard at work knocking down the wall between McCoy and Mr. Scott’s quarters. Mr. Scott had been kind enough to agree to move to Spock’s old quarters beside the Captain’s, leaving the new couple with a spacious arrangement. It had been a necessary compromise in order to perpetuate the charade, but Spock was still uncertain. This would be the real test of whether or not his plan would work long term. If they couldn’t live together then they would never be able to beguile the Vulcan council.

McCoy was leaning against his arm. Not, apparently, out of excessive drunkenness, but merely because it “looked good” as he explained. McCoy’s presence was… not bothersome, Spock decided. He was warm to the touch and seemed to radiate good will as they walked down the corridor together.

Upon arriving to their quarters McCoy began to giggle. “Gonna carry me over the threshold, Spock?”

Spock raised both brows in surprise. “Why would I do such a thing?”

“It’s part of the—” He cut himself off, laughing. “Never mind, never mind. Next wedding you can.” He peeled himself off of Spock’s arm and opened the door. He went in.

Spock found himself illogically rooted to the spot. He wondered what he would find if he crossed that threshold. He recalled, inexplicably, the living room at his childhood home. Once, when he was seven, he had knocked over his father’s tea. He could still remember the squat, earthenware cup, unstable in its design. It had spilled onto the old, paper book that his mother had been reading. Spock had feared reprisal but none had come. Calmly, his father had instructed him in wiping down the book and drying the pages. When his mother returned home no sign of damage remained.

More than anything Spock remembered that his father still kept drinking tea there, in that living room that was for all of them, bathed in the sliver of sun from the window. He still let Spock’s mother spread her things out where she wished. When Spock asked why they didn’t simply keep their things separate, Sarek had said, “It is no easy task, the merging of lives. But once it has begun it cannot be stopped. This is your mother’s space as much as it is mine, or yours. It is ours.”

Spock considered this. Slowly, he stepped forward, one footstep leading into the next, until the door swished shut behind him and he was standing in McCoy’s...his... _ their _ quarters.

McCoy stood in the center of the room and performed a slow turn to examine the new arrangement. Spock looked around as well and saw that although the engineering and moving teams had done an exemplary job with clean up, the room was not arranged optimally. Most of his belongings were along one wall in a small pile and McCoy’s things had been shoved into the corner. Their two desks were each against opposite walls, making the room look cavernous. Stark. There was also a large number of wrapped gifts sitting prominently between the desks. 

“We’ll need to open these all soon and start sending out thank you cards,” McCoy said, walking over to the pile and picking up a box.

He did not, Spock noticed, look into the bedroom. Spock also avoided examining the sleeping alcove for the time being. “There are significantly more gifts than I anticipated.”

“Hopefully it’s not all the same thing.” McCoy shook the box gently, listening to the dull  _ thmp thmp thmp _ of whatever was inside. “I can’t imagine getting twelve sets of crystal glasses and having to use them all or worry about hurting someone's feelings.”

“Our crew is ingenious and adaptive,” Spock reminded him. “Although we neglected to create a gift registry, it is unlikely that they did not communicate about their gifts with one another.”

McCoy was oddly contemplative as he set down the gift. Spock missed the ease of their interaction during the reception. Perhaps it had all been part of the act. “Our crew,” McCoy murmured softly. “You’re right about their ingenuity…” He trailed off into a sigh and went over to his desk, fiddling around with the items there and rearranging them seemingly at random. “So we have two whole days off for a ‘honeymoon.’ What do you want to do?”

“We should spend the time practicing our interactions and discussing strategies for minimizing mistruths and maximizing consistency when misdirection is necessary.”

McCoy’s shoulders stiffened. He bowed his head so that Spock could no longer see his face. “Do we have to? I was hoping to catch up on some journals. I’ve gotten pretty far behind.”

“That is also acceptable,” Spock said carefully. “I am certain we can accomplish both tasks and sort and appraise our wedding gifts within the allotted time.”

“Spock, I’m tired,” McCoy said suddenly. “I’m going to—going to bed.”

Spock hesitated. “We should discuss the sleeping arrangements.”

“I’ll take the couch,” McCoy said breezily. He turned and leaned against the desk with his arms folded over his chest. He seemed to lose all the tension that had marked their conversation thus far. He shrugged. “We can switch off every-other night.”

Feeling thrown by McCoy’s abrupt shift in mood, Spock looked to the couch for guidance. It was too short for McCoy to easily stretch out on. “Illogical,” he said. “As a Vulcan I require only three hours of sleep per night, on average, and an additional two hours of meditation. As I will therefore spend the majority of my time in the common area, I should take the couch every night.”

“What kind of logic is that?” McCoy bristled. “You’ll be exhausted after just a few nights!”

“I am capable of sleeping under many adverse conditions.”

“What if we got a second bed?”

Spock frowned. “We do not even know the current bed situation.”

They went into the sleeping alcove and looked at it.

“It certainly is big,” McCoy said.

“Yes,” Spock agreed.

“Could probably fit three or four people on there…” McCoy trailed off.

“There is certainly no room for a second bed, even a small one. If we were to place a second bed in the common area we would have to take great care not to allow others to enter our quarters.”

“Right. Don’t want them wondering why we aren’t sleeping together.”

“Yes.”

“And how would we even get a bed, really? We’d have to requisition one.”

“The requisitions officer would no doubt grow suspicious.”

They looked at the bed for some time.

Finally, McCoy sighed deeply. “Are you really going to keep arguing with me about the couch thing?”

“Yes. Because my logic is sound.”

McCoy’s mouth twitched. “Uh-uh. Remember? I get to win all our arguments from here on out.” He laughed at Spock’s involuntary frown. “But, fine, I’ll let you have this one—just for tonight! This still counts as a win for me, though.”

Spock blinked in confusion.

“Tomorrow I’ll requisition a larger couch. Maybe I can find a pull-out that won’t raise any questions.”

“Logical,” Spock said. He found himself wishing he did not have to leave the alcove. Still, he nodded goodbye. “Good night, Doctor.”

“Night, Spock.”

Spock went back to the common area and reclined on the couch. He could hear McCoy rustling around in the sleeping alcove getting dressed for bed. He closed his eyes to listen. He used the rustle of fabric as a focal point to help him ground his wayward thoughts. His mind cleared as he entered the first stage mediation, intending to contemplate the day’s events and his resulting feelings. 

He fell asleep before the second stage.


	4. Chapter 4

“Well, where should we begin?”

Spock eyed the pile of presents dubiously. “Perhaps with the package on top.”

McCoy chuckled, but it turned into a yawn partway through. He’d hardly been able to sleep at all, despite the luxurious bed and no sleep the night before. He had laid in the middle of that gargantuan bed, feeling like he might get lost in it. Spock also seemed exhausted, although he’d been asleep when McCoy had come out of the common area. He’d been sitting on the couch with his head thrown back, mouth hanging wide open. Spock had been snoring cutely when McCoy had entered, only to wake up immediately when McCoy started laughing.

The gift on top was, unsurprisingly, Jim’s. McCoy figured he’d done that on purpose. He ripped off the wrapping paper and ignored Spock’s soft inhalation of horror. He let the paper fall in a shredded pile on the floor and turned the gift over in his hands, bursting instantly into laughter.

“Damn! I was right! We’re about to get a hundred sets of glasses!”

Spock took the box from him. “It is a thoughtful gift,” he said eventually.

McCoy wiped a tear from his eyes. “Well, I suppose he knows I like the occasional drink.”

Spock shook his head. He carefully pulled one of the glasses from the box. “Observe,” he said, twisting it so the light cascaded off the glass. McCoy was surprised to see it was actually etched with the image of a skull—but not just any skull. It was the one that sat behind his desk in Sickbay and looked over his shoulder as he worked. It had been a gift from his advisor in medical school.

He took the glass and frowned at it. “Huh.”

“And my matching glass is, I believe, not intended for alcohol, but rather hot cocoa.” He removed a lopsided, pale blue ceramic mug. It had the look of something handmade, and McCoy knew instantly that Jim must have made it. He looked down at his own glass and ran his thumb over the etching, realizing Jim must have done this as well.

“His and his drinking glasses,” McCoy muttered. He carefully set aside Jim’s card, already workshopping an appropriate thank-you in his head. He really was touched that Jim had gotten them a gift at all, knowing what he knew. He smiled.

Next, they opened a package from Uhura. It was wrapped in red paper, which McCoy summarily shredded. Spock began to pick up the pieces and carefully set them aside in a neat pile. Uhura’s gift was a wooden box that fit nicely into the palm of McCoy’s hand. The wood was smooth to the touch. There was a metal crank on one side.

“Must be a music box,” McCoy said, lifting the lid. Inside was a perfect miniature replica of the  _ Enterprise _ bridge. At first McCoy thought it was a hologram but as he peered at it more closely he realized it was tin. A tiny Spock stood by the science station. Jim was in his chair in his green shirt. The entire bridge crew was there. McCoy twisted the crank and the box began to play a haunting tune on the lyre.

The little figures on the bridge began to move. The turbolift door slid open and McCoy recognized a tiny figure of himself step out. He moved about the bridge, stopping once at Jim’s chair, and then to Spock’s science station. 

“Curious,” Spock said calmly, apparently unaffected by the music that was leaving McCoy struggling to breathe. “I believe this is a recording of me.”

Damn right, it was. McCoy recognized it instantly. He remembered the day Uhura must have recorded it. It had been… a bad day. Time and sadness had clouded his memory of the specifics, and so he couldn’t remember what had gone wrong. Perhaps nothing. But he had been isolated in his quarters contemplating how many wagons he could fall off of when he’d decided enough was enough. Somehow, he’d found himself in the rec room where Spock had been playing his lyre. At first, McCoy had pretended not to be listening, but then Spock had started taking requests.

There had been a song his great-grandfather used to play. The kind of music you howled along to. He requested that.

It had sounded so strange and haunting on the lyre, half improvised as Spock worked to find the right notes on an instrument with too many strings. But it had struck McCoy as something cathartic.  _ Good _ . He remembered watching Spock’s fingers pluck at strings that connected more to his heart than to the lyre. He remembered thinking that frustrating, emotionless Vulcan had no business making him feel...feel like...

He shook off the thought. All that had happened months ago. Had Uhura been sitting on this recording the entire time? Had she always planned to give it to him?

“Sounds mighty fine,” he managed. He could feel Spock watching him closely and so he busied himself with closing the box and putting it aside. He cleared his throat and frowned at the pile. “What’s next?”

Next was an obsidian-colored sphere from Chekov that turned out to be a planetarium. On one setting it showed the stars from Earth and on the other it showed them from Vulcan. It also had a setting that slowly shifted the stars from the Earth sky to Vulcan and back again, and McCoy honestly felt like he was on a real planet feeling the rotation beneath him. He and Spock turned the lights out and racked out on the floor and just looked at the sky for a while.

Sulu gifted them an ancient Vulcan tea ceremony set and a package of dozens of different kinds of teas from across the galaxy. McCoy had the feeling some of them were leftovers from Sulu’s tea-drinking phase, but it was still a thoughtful gift. The tea set would look nice on the shelf, and it was useful. He knew Spock liked to drink tea but hardly ever got the chance. Maybe this would encourage him.

Scotty had gotten them...a box.

“What is it?” McCoy turned it over in his hands. He found a long wire coming out of the back, but he still wasn’t sure. “Read the card.”

Spock’s eyebrows moved towards his hairline. “‘To the Spock-McCoys,’” he read.

“Why do you get to be listed first? Alphabetically, I should be first.”

“Not in the Vulcan alphabet,” Spock said, and before McCoy could decide if he was bullshitting he began reading again. “‘This is an ancient traditional Earth-gift called a toaster. Of course, I’ve made a few modifications—’”

“A wee number. You have to say ‘a wee number’ of modifications.”

Spock looked at him flatly. “It does not say that. It says, ‘The toaster now operates at warp. Please do not plug it into the ship if you are operating at above warp 3 as it will blow the power grid, and then there’ll be trouble. Also, it toasts pictures of the  _ Enterprise _ onto the bread.’”

“Well,” McCoy said, gingerly wrapping up the wire and setting it aside. “It’s very...Scotty. We’ll have to write him a special thank you note.”

“Indeed.” Spock maintained a two-meter distance from the toaster at all times.

Rand had gotten them a closed wine box. When Spock started to open it McCoy stopped him. “No, see? Look at the labels. We aren’t supposed to open the box until we have a night like that.”

Spock frowned at the box. “Quiet night in, thoughtful exchange, and first anniversary.” His eyebrow arched. “Thoughtful exchange is a rather...diplomatic phrasing.”

“As long as we know she means knock-down, drag-out brawl.” He grinned and set the box aside for another day. Spock wouldn’t be able to actually get drunk, but maybe McCoy could talk him into sharing a glass anyway.

“There is an additional item.” Spock flipped over Rand’s box and peeled of a datapadd which had been taped to the bottom. His eyes went wide and he nearly dropped it.

“What?” McCoy took the padd from him and looked at it.  _ The Kama Sutra _ . McCoy nearly dropped it, too. “Let’s just put this over here.” He studiously avoided looking at Spock, internally cursing Rand for being a smart-aleck. Hell, maybe she thought she was helping.

Next was a square package from M’Benga. McCoy tore off the paper and tossed it at Spock just to bother him, and then he frowned.

“Hey, what’s this say?”

Spock studied the cover of the ancient paper book. “It is a book of Vulcan healing arts.”

“Too bad I can’t read it.” He let the book fall open and it went automatically to a page with a slip of paper stuffed inside. There was a long list of handwritten phrases on it, and McCoy automatically read the first one.

_ Taluhk nash-veh k'dular _ __ _ — _ I cherish thee

He slammed the book shut.

“A problem, Doctor?”

“Nope. No problem. Just don’t want to ruin an antique,” he lied quickly. He cleared his throat. His mind was racing. M’Benga was apparently still putting his residency on Vulcan to good use. A cheat sheet of loving phrases to say to Spock in Vulcan? It really would have been a very thoughtful gift—if he and Spock were actually in love. 

He glanced at Spock and tried to erase the words from his mind.

Last was Christine’s gift. If McCoy was honest with himself he would admit that he had put it off until the end. He couldn’t bear to look and so he handed it to Spock. Spock took it hesitantly and carefully peeled away the paper, taking the better part of an eternity to actually get the damn thing open.

“Oh,” Spock said.

“Oh,” McCoy agreed.

It was a datapadd filled with books on parenting. Christine had been thoughtful; it had books from Vulcan and Earth traditions in equal proportion, plus a few from other planets that had interesting titles. It had everything from deciding you were ready to have kids to maintaining healthy relations in adulthood. Everything the two of them could possibly need.

McCoy felt ill. “I’ll put this with the other things.”

After, they eyed their new array of new belongings and McCoy tried not to feel guilty for misleading his friends. They all—even Jim—had gotten them things that really spoke to them as  _ partners _ , solid and enduring moving forward. Scotty was the only possible exception, but McCoy knew that in his own way Scotty had gotten them the best gift he could imagine. His friends—their family—really thought he was in love, and now he had to lie to them for the rest of his life. He let out a sigh and then startled as he felt Spock’s hand on his shoulder. 

“Shall we begin sharing our gratitude with the crew?”

Spock’s hand was warm and grounding. McCoy felt his body lean into the support before he could talk himself out of it. “Sure,” he murmured. “Couldn’t hurt.”

*

McCoy was hurting. Spock knew this to be true. 

They had spent the rest of their “honeymoon” together in relative quiet. Each time Spock had attempted to discuss the parameters of their ruse McCoy’s distraction increased. He grew withdrawn and reserved. The lines of exhaustion on his kind face deepened until Spock decided it would be more prudent to avoid discussing the matter entirely. Instead, they practiced the finger kiss until Spock had only to raise his hand to find McCoy at his side as if he were born to stand there. McCoy played the role of a doting husband quite admirably.

McCoy had caught up on his journals and Spock had rearranged their quarters into a more logical assemblage. He placed their new gifts in prominent locations (save for the book from Rand, which he slipped under the bed). He divided their individual belongings evenly and placed McCoy’s things on the left-hand side of the room and his things on the right. Each desk went against a different wall and the couch and coffee table went to the center of the room. In all, the break had been productive. 

But their duties remained. Spock, finding he could not sleep, left early the morning their honeymoon was to end. He went to the lab to catch up on reports and found Ensign Mulcahy and Technician Chen playing Poker on the lab table.

“Oh! Sir!” Mulcahy swept aside the poker chips, panicked. “We were just...devising a new randomization scheme!”

“Indeed.” Spock raised an admonishing brow.

Chen looked mildly relieved at his entrance, and Spock noted she had only a high king in her hand. “We weren’t expecting you so soon, sir.”

“The lab’s a mess.” Mulcahy began to move beakers around haphazardly. “We were just about to clean up.”

“Oh?” He kept his gaze flat.

“Well,” Chen drawled. “We expected you to wait until the last second before returning to work. You know, to be with your husband.”

Spock saw the logic and tried to think quickly. He said smoothly, “Vulcan and human sleeping patterns are quite different. My husband requires more rest than I do.”

“Ah.” Mulcahy gave him a knowing look. “He’s not exactly a morning person, then?”

Spock thought of McCoy’s reaction when Jim had suggested he lay off the coffee a little. Slowly, he shook his head. “Indeed not.”

Chen laughed and the matter was dropped, but Spock continued to contemplate the situation throughout the day. His mind returned frequently to the thought of McCoy waking that morning and stepping into the common room, only to find himself alone. He wondered if perhaps McCoy had wanted them to share a breakfast, as they had for the previous two mornings using the low-yield replicator in their quarters. McCoy had ordered eggs benedict the first day, but after only finishing half of an egg he ordered an outlandishly large waffle with strawberries the second day. He again ate only a small portion. Spock had ordered protein cubes both days.

Spock imagined how it might have benefitted them both to discuss their agendas for the day. He could have asked whether McCoy had appreciated the time away from work. Spock felt oddly hollow knowing he had missed the opportunity. He was at a loss to explain the feeling.

On the bridge he was driven to distraction over the idea. He attempted to control the thought and its accompanying emotion but he could not fully sublimate it. He determined that there must be  _ something _ logical about the pull he felt towards McCoy. Otherwise the emotion would not keep surfacing. Perhaps it had something to do with what M’Benga had told him at his bachelor party.

M’Benga had informed him that his gift was a bit unorthodox. It was a story. M’Benga told him of an incident when Dr. McCoy had gone four days without proper sleep. He had not eaten, and had avoided pain medication even though M’Benga’s scans showed that he had a severe stress-induced headache. 

“Do you know why?” M’Benga had asked.

Spock had responded that no, he did not.

“Because you were on the  _ Terabithia _ getting your leg stitched back together.”

“That was a minor accident which Dr. Ce’de’roi handled admirably.”

“The incident was minor, but he wasn’t there to deal with it. He works, Spock. That’s what he does when he’s stressed or anxious. You probably know a thing or two about that.” Spock had remained silent until M’Benga smiled at him. “But who am I to prescribe emotions to a Vulcan? I’ve worked with Leonard for three years now and I know a thing or two about him. He’ll work himself to death if you give him the chance. He won’t eat. Won’t sleep. But he also won’t do anything about it because to him, everyone else’s problems are more important. He doesn’t think he’s worth anyone’s care—not even his own.”

After that they had gone back to the revelry of the celebration, but Spock could not shake M’Benga’s words. Last night as they had parted for bed Spock had extended his fingers and McCoy had met them briefly, instantly. Spock had felt a rush of exhausting, pain, and dissonance. But the feelings had been perplexingly unfocused. Although their touch could imbricate him with McCoy’s strongest emotions it would not resolve them. He could not determine their source. 

He thought of partially eaten eggs and waffles, and wondered if McCoy had eaten at all today without Spock there to encourage him. Logically, he reasoned carefully, he required McCoy to be in good physical condition. It was necessary for him to be concerned about his husband’s health. 

Logic satisfied, Spock waited for his standard lunch break. He then went down to Sickbay to take McCoy to lunch.

He found Nurse Chapel there poring over datapadds and entering information onto the computer. “Nurse,” he said, nodding to her.

“Mr. Spock.” She smiled at him and then her face shifted at the sight of him. “Is everything alright?”

“I have no injury or illness to report. I have come to see if Dr. McCoy is available for lunch.”

She looked apologetic. “I’m afraid he’s with a patient right now.”

“I was not informed of any injuries.”

“No, no one’s been hurt. He’s just catching up on routine exams. Even two days off leads to a pretty large backlog. He’s scheduled out for the rest of Alpha shift.”

“I see.” Spock considered her words and kept the frown off his face. “Has he eaten yet today?”

Her mouth twitched. “I’m not certain,” she said diplomatically. “On busy days like this he still winds up in his office occasionally. I just assume that’s when he eats lunch.”

Spock’s frown deepened beyond his control. “Thank you, Nurse. You have been most helpful.”

“Any time, Mr. Spock.” She waved as he left.

Spock prowled the corridors of the ship, thinking deeply. M’Benga and Chapel’s words, along with his own knowledge of McCoy’s habits, did not bode well. The logical interrogation of the evidence lead him to some rather frustrating conclusions. He wasted his entire lunch break coming to the realization that he was now responsible for McCoy’s health entirely. In order to make sure McCoy was happy, healthy, and whole Spock would have to take personal interest in his bodily maintenance regimen starting with what McCoy did—or did not—eat. 

He used his mental discipline to control his own hunger during the rest of his shift. McCoy came up onto the bridge from 1405-1425 hours and Spock frowned at him the entire time. He wondered why McCoy had taken this time to gossip with the captain rather than using it to eat. Jim kept sending Spock inscrutable glances, but McCoy only looked at him once as he entered, smiling at Spock in a way that warmed him unexpectedly. 

Finally, his shift concluded. Spock had the illogical impression that it had been one of the longest shifts he had ever experienced, despite what the chronometer told him. He went immediately to the cafeteria and acquired several things he had seen McCoy eat in the past and which he knew to be calorie dense: a grilled ham-and-cheese sandwich, a blue cheese salad, a basket of fried potatoes, a tall glass of full-fat milk, a half-dozen chocolate chip cookies, and two servings of peach cobbler. He also retrieved a bowl of plomeek broth for himself. His mother would have called his mood “nostalgic” or perhaps “pensive.” 

On the way back to his—their—quarters he passed by the botany lab. He got three steps past it before pausing, turning on his heel, and going inside.

The entire process took perhaps ten minutes yet he still arrived at their quarters before McCoy. He waited at the table in their quarters for a few minutes longer. Then, he used the computer to locate McCoy: Sickbay. Minutes ticked by, and Spock grew more and more concerned with McCoy working late. Spock attempted to mediate but it was impossible. He was distracted by McCoy’s illogical sacrificing of his own body simply to examine the crew. There was not even a pressing medical emergency to use as an excuse!

Finally, nearly twenty-five minutes after the end of Alpha shift, McCoy walked through the door.

“Your shift has been over for some time now, Doctor.”

McCoy froze in the doorway, blinking in surprise. His gaze fell from Spock to the array of food on the table. Spock watched his blue eyes glance around before stopping to stare at the single Denobulan bluebell Spock had retrieved from the botany lab and placed in a vase of water.

“This is for you,” Spock said curtly, pushing the bluebell in McCoy’s general direction. 

“Er, thank you.” McCoy still did not move.

Spock refrained from sighing. “Retrieving the flower was a calculated move. It is logical for me to present you with occasional gifts as expressions of affection.” He fiddled with the vase. “Further, I have prepared dinner.”

“That’s...mighty kind of you, Spock.” McCoy finally began walking. He pulled out the chair opposite Spock and said down gingerly, still watching Spock like he was a wild Sehlat. He whistled under his breath. “This is quite the spread.”

Spock sniffed. “It came to my attention that you did not eat lunch today.”

McCoy glanced up, apparently incredulous. “Are you…” He began laughing. “Are you mad at me? Is that why you’ve got that look on your face? Why the hell are you mad?”

Spock carefully did not frown. “I am not angry,” he said coolly. “Vulcans do not experience such emotions. I have developed a logical concern for your ability to care for yourself.” As he spoke McCoy’s eyebrows rose higher and higher. “Nurse Chapel informed me you did not break for lunch, nor, I suspect, did you partake in breakfast.”

McCoy stared at him. He was so still that Spock thought he had stopped breathing, but then he choked, snorted in disbelief, and broke into a peal of laughter. McCoy buried his face in his hands and guffawed and laughed inelegantly at Spock, who did not see the humor in the situation at all.

“Aw, hell,” McCoy said after a full fifty-three seconds of this. “Jesus, I’m—” He burst into a peal of giggles again as he tried to look at Spock. “Sorry,” he gasped. “Sorry. I’m really...I’m sorry.” He sighed deeply and seemed to regain some measure of control.

Spock looked at him flatly.

“It’s just—” McCoy waved his hand at the food. “I did eat breakfast today, and lunch. Your super-sleuthing lead you down the wrong path.”

“I see.”

“I mean, don’t get me wrong, this looks like a lovely meal, Spock. We may have leftovers, though.”

Spock looked down at the food. He felt suddenly foolish, and he ruthlessly quashed the emotion. “It was a logical assumption based on available evidence. I have… often seen you forgo food when you become worried or distracted. You are quite thin, Leonard.” He snapped his mouth shut, confused at his own proclamation.

“Oh,” McCoy said softly. He cleared his throat and busied himself with the fork and knife. “Well, how about you give me a hand with this? And tell me about your day, for pity’s sake. How were things after I left the bridge? You know, you could have said hello.”

Spock began to eat. He described the events of the day in great detail, although little of note had occurred either before or after McCoy’s visit to the bridge. He ate half of McCoy’s fried potatoes and the entirety of the salad, which was rich and flavorful. He had never tasted bleu cheese before, but he believed he would order it again if given the chance. McCoy also made him eat one of the portions of peach cobbler as he regaled Spock with the story of the cobbler his grandmother used to make. It was apparently twelve times as good and eight times as fattening, but McCoy still seemed to find the chef’s version an acceptable substitute.

Spock saved his plomeek broth for tomorrow. It was traditionally served chilled, anyway.

At some point they picked up the thread of an old argument regarding how specific one should be when relaying probabilities. They debated for hours until McCoy was yawning and Spock was feeling the itch of having gone too long without meditating.

“The dinner was a good idea, Spock,” McCoy said quietly. His eyelids were drooping.

Spock hesitated, and then spoke quickly, words tumbling together. “Perhaps it would be prudent for us to regularly have meals together. It would be logical in establishing us as a legitimate couple in the eyes of the crew.” Further, it would allow him to ensure that McCoy ate properly. Spock did not wish to have another day lost to the distraction of thinking about his husband.

“It’s probably a good idea for me to get used to your face before I have to look at it all the time on Vulcan, too.” McCoy was smiling at him, blue eyes bright and happy. His lips were as soft as his voice.

Spock nodded. He felt that peculiar feeling again—the one he did not yet have a name for—the hollow sense of missed opportunity. He would need to meditate upon that later. “You appear tired.”

McCoy grunted and sat up a little straighter. “I’m fine.”

Spock softened. “It is late—”  _ Leonard _ , he almost said. He looked at the chronometer instead and blinked in surprise. It was 2330 hours. They had talked away the night.

“It’s just…” McCoy pressed the palms of his hands against his eyes and sighed. “I haven’t been sleeping too well in that bed.”

“It is uncomfortable?”

“No, not exactly. I’m not sure what the problem is.” He dropped his hands and looked at Spock with a frown. “Your couch should be here soon, right?”

Spock nodded. “Yes. The quartermaster informed me it will be part of the next shipment of supplies.”

“Pity we already spent so much of our energy allotment getting our quarters around. We could have just replicated it.” McCoy sighed. “Maybe when it gets here we can switch off. I might sleep better on it.”

“Certainly,” Spock agreed. The entire purpose was to accede to the comfort of his husband, and Spock was quite willing to sleep on the enormous bed if it allowed McCoy to rest more easily. “And for tonight?”

“I’ll lie down, at least. Maybe I’ll read.” McCoy stretched his arms over his head and his shoulders popped and cracked, eliciting a gasp of relief. 

Spock began calculating how to best get McCoy to take medication for his pains. But, one thing at a time. “Good night, Doctor.”

“Good night.” McCoy smiled crookedly at him and went off.

Spock set up his meditation mat and donned his robe. He sat cross-legged and lit the incense, inhaling its scent deeply as his mind cleared. He did not often use incense any more, but tonight he felt particularly on edge. The dry, spicy scent reminded him of a youth spent in quiet contemplating alongside his father, and he allowed it to tug him down the path to a clear and open mind. Occasionally distractions arose and he noticed each before releasing it again. Despite the incense he found himself unable to move past the second stage of meditation. Not nearly enough to investigate the hollow feeling he had been experiencing, and so instead he carefully compartmentalized it and cordoned it off for a later mediation.

Two hours later he felt refreshed and went to work on his reports. His long talk with McCoy had put him behind on his work and he needed to catch up. He did not dwell on that feeling again for some time.


	5. Chapter 5

McCoy was tired today, just as he had been yesterday, and the day before that. His entire life felt like a long string of exhaustion. Hell, he might as well get ready to be tired again tomorrow. He hadn’t been able to get more than a few hours of fitful sleep since the wedding so why should tomorrow be any different? 

And that was the whole problem, wasn’t it? The wedding. Oh, the actual event hadn’t been too bad, once he’d gotten over the panic, and he really didn’t mind having Spock around more often. Spock’s presence was actually helpful. Grounding. No, it wasn’t that. It was just the fact that he was  _ married _ now that bothered him.

Married. He stared at the ring on his finger. He could still hardly believe it was real. It felt like a dream—and maybe that’s why he had been having trouble sleeping. Dreams within dreams were elusive. And this new reality he found himself in had to be a dream.

He pinched himself, disappointed to find that he was real. This was real. He was  _ really _ married. And married to  _ Spock _ of all people. It still shocked him.

He and Spock had begun to take their meals together. Spock had drawn up a schedule and sent it to him. The schedule was just rigid enough to please Spock’s mathematical sense of organizing while also being apparently-random enough to fool the crew into thinking they were meeting together out of spontaneous love. They often ate dinner in their quarters, or occasionally in the cafeteria. They ate lunch together whenever their schedules allowed, making sure to sit close and talk softly whether they were discussing Sickbay requisitions or how Spock was wrong (which McCoy brought up often). Their fights were softer now, gentle words to fool the crew. Interestingly, Spock had also taken to staying in their quarters and eating breakfast with him even though McCoy knew he was itching to get to work. Spock often read reports or talked about the upcoming workday, anyway, so McCoy chalked it up to Spock’s irrational obsession with making sure he ate properly.

And thank god the surprise 2000 calorie meals had stopped. After a few days of following the schedule and ensuring that McCoy ate three times a day, Spock had relaxed. McCoy was actually sort of touched by all the attention. He made sure to grouse at Spock a little extra for his trouble. Spock still occasionally brought McCoy snacks when he was working late, but more often he brought flowers.

The flowers were still the biggest surprise for McCoy. Spock averaged just over one flower a day. They were usually blue, but he’d also brought a few roses (with the thorns clipped) and one Daffodil-looking thing from an away mission. (He promised that he’d scanned it thoroughly for allergens, but McCoy still kept a careful distance.) At the moment McCoy’s desk had a vase filled with two Denobulan bluebells, a red rose, and a few tiny flowers that looked like baby’s breath only they were pale pink. It was a pleasant little arrangement, and Christine teased him about it to no end. 

Spock was really taking his duties as fake-devoted husband seriously.

McCoy figured he needed to step up his game. Their charade was still pretty one-sided. Spock brought him things, he accepted them, and occasionally they did one of their finger-kisses in public (or more rarely in private, just to keep McCoy trained and ready for them). But he didn’t really do anything for Spock, and that bothered him. Fact was he was married now, and fake or not he couldn’t let this relationship go the way of his first marriage. 

He winced at the thought. Of course, with Jocelyn their relationship hadn’t even been one-sided. Towards the end it had been like living with a stranger. 

He toyed with the flowers on his desk and sighed, setting them aside for the moment. All this moping wasn’t helping the situation and so he got up to make rounds.

Sickbay was empty—always something to be thankful for. He could hear Christine bustling around in the back. Probably rearranging the supply room, as she’d been threatening to do for almost a year. He stuck his head around the door frame and frowned at the sight of her precariously balanced on a box as she stretched towards the highest shelf.

“I know we’re short on patients but you don’t have to make one of yourself.”

To her credit, she didn’t even waver. She merely pursed her lips at him, stretched a tiny bit further, and pulled a box of prescription datawafers down. “This place is a mess,” she said, glaring at him as if it were his fault. Which, it was. He’d never been very good at putting things back where they belonged. “I’ve been in here for hours and I’m no closer to a done job.”

He shrugged and relieved her of the box so she could jump down. “It looks much better in here, Christine. Thank you.”

“Hmph. We wouldn’t need to clean as often if you did a little bit every time you went in here.”

He winced. “I try.”

“Sure you do,” Christine said doubtfully. She took back the box and began sorting the datawafers into neat stacks. “What brings you out of your cave, anyway? You’ve been in there all day.”

“Just stretching my legs,” he muttered. “I was thinking and wanted to clear my head.”

“Anything a friendly nurse can help you with?”

“I don’t know. Do you see any around?” He laughed as she playfully punched his arm. He watched her return to sorting the datawafers.  _ Click, click, click _ they went into smart piles. “I’ve been thinking about Spock.”

“Oh?” she said neutrally.

He wondered if she was really the best person to ask, but it was too late now. No turning back. The only other person he could think of was Jim, anyway, but Christine was more likely to give him advice based on the assumption that they were actually in love.

“You’ve noticed the flowers he’s been bringing me?” At her nod, he continued, “Well, I feel bad about it.”

“Bad?” She looked up in surprise. “I don’t think Mr. Spock means to hurt you, Leonard.”

He shook his head, backpedaling. “I don’t mean that. I meant… I just realized, is all, that I don’t do enough to show Spock my affection.” The words tasted funny in his mouth. “I’ve been trying to think of what more I can do. I don’t think he’d really appreciate being showered with gifts.”

“Oh, I don’t know. A flower might look nice at his bridge station.” She smiled.

“One of those green flowers Sulu’s got in,” McCoy said, picturing it, “The ones that look like a grass hedgehog.”

She laughed. “Perfect. I’ll fetch you a beaker to put it in.” She went back to sorting the datawafers as she talked. “What did you do when you were dating?”

“We didn’t exactly date,” he hedged.

“When you were courting then,” she said, rolling her eyes. “Vulcan and Georgian-human courtship rituals can’t be that different.”

“They’re surprisingly similar,” he said, echoing something Spock had once told him. 

“Well, perhaps you should go back to that. Just because you’re married doesn’t mean the courtship is over. Obviously you knew something about winning his heart.”

He sensed there was more to her statement than what was on the surface. “There’s still a lot about Spock I don’t know.”

“Maybe that’s the place to start, getting to know him. He may not like a gift, but is there anything else he responds positively to? Hugs? Kisses?”

“He’s always been touch-adverse. I don’t think a hug on the bridge would go over well.”

“What about just telling him you love him?”

“I—” McCoy snapped his mouth shut and attempted to reign in his panic. “That might be, uh, a bit too much. For him, in public I mean.”

She looked at him kindly. Her look said that Spock wasn’t the only one incapable of expressing his emotions. “You can say it in other ways.”

Christine might be onto something. They didn’t often exchange compliments—the biggest one he’d ever gotten from Spock had been when he proposed and said he was compassionate. But McCoy hadn’t exactly returned the favor. He remembered Spock always brightened whenever Jim gave him a compliment, and the few times McCoy had pointed out something he did right Spock had looked over the moon with contentment. He remembered praising Spock for his radio-hacking skills on Sigma Iotia III. Spock had puffed up like a damned peacock he’d been so pleased, although his subsequent misdialing of the station was still one of the funniest thing McCoy had ever seen Spock do.

“You have a point,” he said after a moment’s contemplation. He rocked back on his heels. “I’ll give it some thought.”

“Good,” she said, handing him a stack of datawafers, “while you’re thinking help me sort these. We have a lot of work to do.”

After his shift was done he moseyed back to their quarters. There was a message from Spock when he arrived saying he would be late but confirming that he was bringing supper, so McCoy decided to just read for a while.

He hadn’t gotten through half a page before he got distracted by how messy everything was. Here he’d left a dozen datapadds on the coffee table, and there some of his styluses had gotten over on Spock’s desk. He’d even put some of his paper books back wrong so they crowded into Spock’s territory. He must be driving Spock batty with all his things everywhere. How Spock got anything done in the mess, he had no idea. He decided to clean up a bit. That was something nice he could do for Spock.

And someone might have come in and seen what a mess this place was and disbelieved their story, his mind added belatedly. Although he couldn’t quite figure how.

He cleaned up all his random things and moved his junk back to his half of the room. Then he dusted everything and straightened their tea set, which had gotten askew when one of his books had fallen on it. After that he got a wild hair and took out the full set and brewed up some camomile tea. He had it all ready when Spock arrived.

Spock raised his brow and looked around their quarters in surprise.

“It’s about time,” McCoy said, grinning. He gestured at the table. “I made us some tea to go with supper.”

If possible, Spock looked even more surprised. Both eyebrows were heading north. He set down his burden, which was apparently lasagna and a hyacinth-looking purple flower. “For you, Doctor,” he said, picking up the flower and handing it to him.

“Thank you, Mr. Spock.” McCoy took it and placed it in the vase he’d gotten just for Spock’s tokens of affection. “I hope you like camomile.”

“It is acceptable,” Spock said, seating himself. He looked around again. “You have moved your things.”

“Well,” McCoy felt a bit embarrassed now. He half-wished that Spock hadn’t noticed. “I just picked up a little, that’s all. You know how I am. Can’t spare a thought to where I’m setting down a datapadd until the pile topples over.”

“I see.” Spock was studying the tea set. He leaned over in his chair and rotated one of the cups ninety degrees. He lingered over the castiron, leaving behind perfect prints where his fingers had kissed the metal. “...You had concerns that I found the arrangement of items distasteful?”

“No.” McCoy blinked in surprise. “Well, I mean, yes. It was clutter and I know you hate that.”

Spock hummed. His gaze flickered to McCoy and then back down. He began to set out his knife and fork. “It is not necessary. You may place your items where you please. If they are in my way, I will simply move them, but they do not disturb me. Further, it is to be expected that our things should intermingle. Allowing them to do so will add credence to our charade.”

McCoy bristled with anger. Spock had a real knack for rubbing him the wrong way. He tried to put a lid on it, instead focusing his energy on snapping up his fork and stabbing his lasagna. “You’re right,” he growled. He felt foolish and embarrassed at having tried to do something nice and failing. “How stupid of me.” 

Spock’s eyebrows knitted. “You appear upset.”

“Why the hell would I be upset?” One corner of his mind helpfully noted he was blushing with embarrassment. “Drink your damn tea.” 

Spock took a sip. “Acceptable,” he said, and McCoy counted to ten to force himself not to bite Spock’s head off.

“Glad you think so,” he muttered, and Spock apparently didn’t detect the sarcasm—or chose to ignore it.

They ate in relative silence, and after that they absconded to their opposing corners and worked on their own things. McCoy made a point of leaving his datapadd askew on the coffee table, but Spock really didn’t seem bothered by it. He was frowning at his computer screen with a look of deep concentration, the hair on his forehead slightly askew. McCoy wondered what had gotten Spock so worked up that he’d run his fingers through his hair. He had the sudden, painful desire to bring their desks closer together. It would have been nice not to work so far apart from his husband.

He stood up quickly. “I’m going to bed.”

Spock was so intent on his padd he barely spared him a glance. “Good night, Doctor.”

_ Leonard _ , he wanted to say _. Call me Leonard one more time. I’m sorry I’m cruel to you.   _ He said nothing. He just went into the sleeping alcove and crawled into his pajamas and prepared for another long night of dreadful, elusive sleep.

He thought of Spock just on the other side of the wall working his way through reports. He stared up at the ceiling and wondered if Spock felt as awkward about their marriage as he did—if, indeed, Spock felt anything at all about it. Spock was always going on about his lack of emotions, but after all these years together McCoy knew him better than that. Spock was feeling something, to be sure, but  _ what _ was a different story.

_ I’m married _ , he thought, and closed his eyes.  _ I’m married and I need to show him I care _ ... _ That I… _

He thought of finger-kisses in the silence of their quarters, and sighed.

*

Spock stepped down towards the captain’s chair and stumbled, shooting out a hand to catch himself. His fingers dug into the hard metal of the railing and the force of his grasp left indents in the paint. He pulled his hand away and looked around but only Uhura had noticed his awkwardness as the ship was cast about in the turbulence. She said nothing, merely turned back to her station.

“Engineering reports we may have pierced the dampening cloud, Mr. Spock.”

Spock acknowledged her and sat in the captain’s chair, depressing a button on the arm. Immediately, he felt despair. He was certain it would not work any better now than it had before. They had dodged the Ch’Huan weapons array for four days as they struggled to regain contact with the landing party, and not once had there been any indication that they were being heard.

“Spock to Captain Kirk. Come in, please.” Silence. He tried again. “Spock to away team. If you are receiving this message, please respond.”

He listened but only static greeted him. Spock looked to Sulu, who gave him a curt nod.

“Landing party, if you are receiving, we are currently maintaining orbit in the upper atmosphere. At my mark we will begin descending at a rate of one-hundred kilometers per three seconds in the hopes of piercing the dampening field. Away team, please respond.”

Silence. Spock looked up and saw the tension in Sulu’s shoulders. The maneuver would tax the pilot severely, but Spock was confident in his skills. “Mr. Sulu, mar—”

An explosion of static pierced the tension on the bridge, and Spock heard a voice. “Lieutenant!”

“Cleaning the signal,” Uhura said. 

“Away team, please repeat.”

The voice that echoed through the speakers was laced with exhaustion, but the sound was pure music to Spock’s ears. “McCoy here.”

Spock felt some of the tension leave him. He maintained his composure. “Are you well, Doctor?”

McCoy let out a low, miserable laugh. “As ever,” he said. “Jim’s been injured and I had to piece together a damned blown-up communicator. I’m no engineer, but these surgeon’s hands did a fine job if I do say so myself.”

Spock shook himself, disturbed that he had not immediately asked after the captain. He glanced at Uhura, who nodded and began coordinating with engineering and transporters. “We are attempting to pierce the dampening field now. What is your status?”

“I’ve got Jim stable, for the moment. Fractured ribs, broken collar bone, and a punctured lung which I fixed with duct tape and ingenuity. Have the surgical team prepped and ready. Lieutenant Marcuse is missing. He went scouting twelve hours ago and hasn’t returned, and I can’t leave Jim to look for him.”

“Mr. Chekov, scan the surrounding area for lifesigns.”

“Mr. Spock,” Uhura broke in. “Engineering reports they have partial penetration of the dampening field. They cannot beam lifeforms but could transport supplies.”

“Coordinate with sickbay to deliver the necessary supplies. Doctor—” He stopped, suddenly realizing he had nothing to say. His mind was blank. “We are doing everything we can.”

He could hear McCoy’s low, gentle chuckle and it warmed him unexpectedly. “You always do, Spock. You’re good like that.” He sighed and then Spock could only hear him breathing.

Logically, he should have turned off the comm, but he did not. He needed to stay connected to McCoy. Belatedly, he reasoned that they may again lose communications.

“Supplies are here,” McCoy said after a moment. “Let me know when you can beam us up. Miss you. McCoy out.”

Spock felt the knife-sharp snap of the communicator closing. He allowed himself to close his eyes and breathe deeply, centering himself. He knew he needed sleep and meditation. Even his Vulcan body could not continue at the frenetic pace he had set. He had not allowed himself to rest even a moment over the past four days. The crew had all been pulling double shifts, but he had been pulling triple. He hadn’t left the bridge except to go to the science lab and demand answers from his team.

Right up until the science lab had been neatly excised from the ship by the weapons array, taking one of his team with it. After that, he hadn’t left the bridge again.

It took an additional two hours to fully pierce the dampening field and beam back the away team. Lieutenant Marcuse was located with a broken leg and Jim was shuttled into surgery. Spock directed them away from the planet at maximum impulse, in deference to Mr. Scott’s engines which were currently riddled with holes. Mr. Scott reported another fourteen hours before they were operational (which Spock mentally adjusted down to the more likely nine hours).

The crisis was over. There was no reason for him to remain on the bridge.

Yet, he did not move. He reasoned that he should continue to monitor the repairs at least until Mr. Scott was available to take the conn. Mr. Scott would likely need sleep after the warp core was repaired. That was reasonable, and meant that Spock would only need to remain on the bridge for an additional twenty hours. Reasonable.

He could feel Uhura’s gaze on his back, but he ignored it. Even Sulu turned and gave him a few looks, but he merely raised his eyebrow and Sulu sheepishly turned back around. There were no problems, he told himself firmly. 

He did not at all need to know whether Dr. McCoy was well. He did not at all need to hunt down his husband and pull him into his arms, hold him steady enough to feel the beating of his heart. He had heard McCoy’s voice. That should be enough. He did not need to see his bright blue eyes and reassure himself that there was still light there.

He was jerked out of his contemplation by the whistling comm.

“Mr. Spock, Sickbay has a message for you. Dr. McCoy is asking for you to take the call in the briefing room.”

Spock frowned. “A report on the captain?”

“No,” she looked amused. “Dr. McCoy is very insistent, sir.”

“Very well.” Spock rose and straightened his shirt. He walked swiftly to the briefing room and the door shut behind him. The room was empty, and the computer screen was off, but the comm was broadcasting. He folded his hands behind his back. “Spock here.”

“What the hell is this I hear about you not sleeping for 96 hours!”

Spock winced. “Doctor—”

“And now I have to pause a very important surgery just to yell at you to take care of your damned self! You fool-headed  _ Vulcan _ !”

“Doctor—”

“You should know better than to think you can effectively run a ship on no sleep and no meditation. I’ve  _ seen _ your meditation schedule and I know what kind of snit you get into when you miss a session. So pull whatever you’ve got stuck in your ears out—”

“Doctor—”

“—and damn well listen to what I have to say! You’re going to hand over the conn to Sulu and get some rest immediately, or I’ll have you confined to Sickbay!”

Spock listened to McCoy’s enraged panting, feeling a lightness seize in his heart. McCoy was alive and, apparently, quite well. “Did you truly leave a surgery to tell me this?” he asked, amused.

McCoy sighed. “No. Jim’s fine and I was assisting M’Benga with setting Marcuse’s leg. Busy body told me to get out of his hair,” he trailed off, muttering.

“There is another potential case of exhaustion of which you should be made aware.”

McCoy growled. “I know all about that trick you pulled on Jim, so don’t even try it. I’m needed here right now.”

Spock considered. “Very well, Doctor.”

“What?” McCoy sounded shocked. “You’re actually listening to me?”

“Was that not part of our arrangement?” Spock asked. It was so much easier to say things like this over the comm rather than face-to-face. “You are the  _ de facto _ winner of all our...discussions.”

“Damn right I am,” McCoy said smugly. “I’m glad you finally realized that. Now go get some sleep. That’s an order.”

“Yes, sir,” Spock said dryly. He realized that he was feeling slightly giddy. Perhaps he needed to meditate more than he realized.

McCoy chuckled breathily against the comm. “I’ll be along soon. McCoy out.”

He went back to the bridge and left Sulu with the conn. Then he took the turbolift to sickbay. He was not surprised to find McCoy still hovering near M’Benga, demanding updates on all that had happened during his absence.

Spock stood with his arms behind his back and cleared his throat. “Doctors.”

They both turned and looked at him in surprise. “Mr. Spock,” M’Benga said, looking inordinately relieved. “Have you come to take him away?”

“Unless you require his continued presence?”

M’Benga spoke over McCoy’s splutter of disbelief. “Not at the moment. In fact, as I informed him, it’s my medical opinion that he should go and get some sleep. He’s disobeyed my order, though.”

“Perhaps I should call for a security escort,” Spock suggested. He glanced at McCoy, who looked stunned.

“This whole damn ship is colluding against me,” McCoy muttered. “Fine, I’ll go. But you better call me if Jim so much as sighs funny.”

“Of course, Doctor,” M’Benga said, rolling his eyes when McCoy wasn’t looking.

Spock met McCoy’s gaze and catalogued his exhaustion. There were deep black bruises under his eyes and his face was lined with worry. He looked pale and ghastly grey. His shoulders were hunched and tense. He had already been looking more and more tired over the past few weeks, but now he looked utterly wrecked. Spock wondered if he had managed any sleep while they were on the planet.

McCoy huffed, apparently for effect, and made a great show of walking dramatically out of the sickbay. Spock followed a step behind until McCoy slowed to walk beside him.

The corridors were nearly empty now that they had stood down from red alert. It was, after all, 0300 hours. Their footsteps echoed loudly down the corridor.

“There was a moment there,” McCoy said suddenly, “about a day after the communications had gone out. I lost track of where  _ Enterprise _ was in the sky and I thought that you had…” He trailed off, looking straight ahead.

“You assumed we had left you there?” Spock asked quietly.

“I assumed you had been destroyed.” McCoy chuckled without mirth. “You wouldn’t have left the captain there without a damn good reason.”

“He was not the only vital member of this crew trapped on the planet,” Spock said. He wished McCoy would look at him.

“I’ll tell Marcuse you said that.”

Spock pursed his lips, not wishing to argue with McCoy regarding his vital role on this ship. He remained silent until they reached McCoy’s—their—quarters. Spock watched McCoy open the door and felt himself whisper, “I would not have left you.”

McCoy did not seem to hear him. He walked one step inside and then stopped, staring.

At the couch, Spock realized as he followed him in. Their new couch. It had finally arrived, sometime during the panic of the past four days.

“Look at that,” McCoy said. “It’s just exactly what we ordered.” He went forward and depressed a button on the arm and the couch sprang open to reveal a bed. McCoy huffed at it. “Well, what do you think? Looks pretty comfy.”

“It appears adequate to our needs.” It looked more than adequate, in fact. It was decadent. The couch was plush and soft, and the bed was enormous. “Do you wish to use it first?”

McCoy shook his head. “I’m exhausted enough that I should be able to sleep just fine. And I know you have a lot of meditation to catch up on.”

“Indeed.” For a moment, Spock almost did not recognize the feeling he was experiencing, but then it came to him. That hollowness. The feeling of profound emptiness, as if he were reaching across a great chasm but in the moment he had nearly touched the other side he had instead dropped his hand. There was something—something in the bow of McCoy’s shoulders, in the darkness of his eyes—that Spock should be responding to. But he knew not how. “Then I will bid you goodnight. Rest well, Doctor.”

“You too, Spock.” McCoy was caught in a yawn as he disappeared into the sleeping alcove.

Meditation should have come easily after so long without, but instead it eluded him. He struggled to enter the second stage and then had difficulty maintaining it. After an hour he surrendered to the inevitable and pulled out the couch bed.

He gazed at the ceiling, dim in the light. If he listened very closely he could hear McCoy breathing in the next room. There was a shuffle—McCoy rolling over—and then a sigh. After a moment another shuffle, and a deeper sigh. McCoy tossed and turned as Spock lay utterly still and listened. Sleep, it seemed, was just as elusive for McCoy as meditation had been for Spock. After a while the rustling stopped but McCoy’s breathing did not even out. The cadence of his breaths was agitated. 

Spock rose. He put away the bed and walked quietly to the doorway of the sleeping alcove. He could make out the shape of McCoy in the light of the chronometer, hunched over with the blankets up around his ears. He watched in silence.

“I’m not asleep,” McCoy whispered softly. “If you want to come in, you can.”

Spock took one hesitant step inside and McCoy rolled over to watch him, eyes glittering in the scant light of the chronometer. Feeling emboldened, Spock glided across the floor and towards the bed. He pulled back the covers. McCoy’s gaze was heavy upon him as he slipped beneath them and settled against McCoy’s side, feeling the heat of his body.

McCoy rolled back over and Spock examined the soft expanse of his shoulders. McCoy seemed more relaxed now, and Spock rested his head on one of the pillows and watched McCoy’s body move gently in time with his breaths. In, and out. In, out. It was more relaxing than his paltry attempt at meditation. In, out. In, out. Spock closed his eyes and breathed.

Suddenly, McCoy shifted beside him. McCoy turned and Spock felt a hand on his arm, hot through the sleeve of his night shirt. “Spock?”

“Yes, Doctor?”

McCoy rubbed a circle with his thumb. “M’Benga told me what happened while we were on the planet. I just… wanted to say I’m glad you were here. You worked hard to get us out. I don’t think anyone could have done as good a job as you did.”

“It was my negligence which caused the deaths of a crew member.”

McCoy gripped Spock more tightly and pulled him closer. His whisper turned harsh. “You know that’s not your fault. It’s the fault of crazy people who built a damn laser cutter in the sky!” McCoy shook him gently, as if trying to rouse him from a deep sleep. “You did better than anyone else could have done.”

Spock said nothing in response. He had nothing to say, and did not wish to argue with McCoy. McCoy’s trust in his abilities warmed him but he could not shake the residual doubt he felt. Gradually, McCoy relaxed his grip and pulled away.

“Try to get some sleep,” McCoy murmured. “Doctor’s orders.”

“I shall try,” Spock said, and listened as McCoy’s breathing evened out into a peaceful slumber. Spock curled onto his side and reached out, touching the tips of his fingers against McCoy’s. Warmth and peace infused him, filled him, lulled him, and with that he fell asleep.


	6. Chapter 6

McCoy awoke refreshed after the first full night of sleep he’d had since the wedding. He rolled over and found that he was alone again. For a moment he thought he had dreamed the whole thing, but when he put out his hand he could feel the warmth of Spock’s body still clinging to the covers. He rested his hand in the divot where Spock had slept beside him and closed his eyes, falling asleep again.

The second time he awoke he was coming off a bad dream, hot and cranky and dehydrated. He kicked off the blankets and scowled at the now-cold spot beside him. A quick trip to the common area told him that Spock had already left for the day. He frowned at the poor dead flower in the vase. Spock must not have had time to get a new one—not that he would have with McCoy stranded on the planet. He tossed out the old flower and rinsed the vase in the sonic sink.

A low-pitched sonic shower was a luxury after four days of sweat and anxiety on the planet. He hadn’t bathed at all, unless you counted scrubbing up for surgery. He felt bad for Spock being forced to breathe in that smell last night. He knew Vulcans had a better sense of smell than humans, although Vulcan males weren’t quite as adept as Vulcan females. 

He paused in washing his hair, considering. It suddenly occurred to him that Spock  _ hadn’t _ been forced to lie with him. That, in fact, sleeping in the same bed was  _ unusual _ for them. Something in his brain had been so excited to have the disconnect between the ring on his finger and the absence in his bed resolved that he hadn’t even realized that he was taking for granted Spock’s presence. He blinked a few times, mentally readjusting his worldview, and then went back to washing up.

McCoy popped down to Sickbay and saw that Jim was recovering nicely. He’d still need to be kept under close observation for a few days, and after that he’d need at least a week of light duty (so of course McCoy made plans to prescribe two weeks, knowing Jim would cut out halfway through). He caught up on paperwork and signed off on the reports M’Benga and Christine had left for him. He made a mental note to ask Starfleet for an administrative nurse (again) or at least a stamp with his thumb print on it so that he didn’t have to actually look at all this paperwork.

His mind wandered throughout the day, usually back to the thought of Spock curling up beside him, and the perfect night of sleep he’d gotten as a result. He tried to tell himself that the two events weren’t connected—that he’d just been exhausted and that was why he’d finally been able to sleep. But he knew his earlier guess was right. It might not have been logical, but it was true. When he had a ring on his finger—that wasn’t his mother’s old one—he felt lonely not having his partner by his side.

Grunting in disbelief at the thought, he distracted himself with more paperwork.

But he couldn’t stop thinking about it, and seeing as it was a slow day in Sickbay he decided to hunt Spock down. He expected to find him on the bridge working his way to exhaustion again, but the computer informed him that Spock was in the secondary science lab usually reserved for Sickbay business.

Of course. The physics lab was still exposed to space. McCoy shuddered at the thought and rose quickly. He needed to see how Spock was doing.

The lab was positively bustling. Spock’s team was rushing hither and yon, clearly attempting to save as many experiments as possible. Days of neglect and a leaky atmosphere had already ruined some, but McCoy could see that some of the more important experiments would be just fine. The strange atomic structure Spock had discovered on Gamma Centauri IV was in a prominent place in the center of the room being tended to by two ensigns and Spock himself. McCoy relaxed at the sight. Even Vulcans could get sentimental, provided it was over the right thing.

“Usually a fella would ask before taking over another man’s lab.”

Spock looked over at him, one eyebrow arching. “Dr. M’Benga informed me the likelihood of Sickbay requiring full use of these facilities was minimal.”

“I’m sure he did.” He wasn’t really looking for a fight, just a tease, so he made sure to smile. “Usually it’s the responsibility of the  _ chief _ medical officer to make determinations like that.”

Spock looked at him thoughtfully. “You have made it quite clear in the past that you detest all administrative duties. And…” Spock hesitated just long enough for McCoy to notice. “You were sleeping.”

McCoy blushed, feeling the eyes of everyone on the room locked on the two of them. He cleared his throat and said, “Do you need a hand with anything?”

Spock studied him like a bug under a microscope. He turned to Technician Chen and rattled off a set of instructions that McCoy was fairly certain was in code, and then he walked briskly across the room. “You may assist me in stabilizing the nucleotide structure which was damaged in the attack.”

Hell, McCoy knew nucleotide structures like the back of his hand, and Spock knew that, too. Either of them could have done it alone. He wondered what Spock was up to having them both work on it together. Still, he followed Spock over to the square glass box and listened patiently, and with no small amount of amusement, as Spock detailed the procedure. 

McCoy could have done it in his sleep, probably, but he didn’t interrupt Spock’s warm, soft voice. He poked buttons when Spock asked him to, feeling his smile grow with fondness. He could tell that Spock was excited—in that Vulcan way of his—but more than that he was impressed. This was a science pretty outside Spock’s field of study. He must have taught himself.

An idea hit him. He glanced around, counting the five other people in the room and noting that no one was paying them any mind. He had tried to implement plan Compliment Spock last night, but it had fallen flat in the face of such a recent disaster. Spock was too busy kicking himself over command decisions utterly outside his control. But right now they were in public, which was where he was supposed to be complimenting Spock, anyway. He could do that, surely. Just show a bit of affection. Just a tiny bit, so that other people could see. Just say,  _ Good job, Spock _ and smile at him. Easy.

He opened his mouth a few times and closed it again. The words stuck in his throat. Dammit, what was wrong with him? It was easy. Child’s play. Just say: Spock, you’re doing a good job.

Damn, but it  _ was _ difficult. He’d gone so silent trying to work up the gumption that even Spock noticed, eyeing him coolly.

“A problem with the structure, Doctor?”

“No.” It was now or never. He attempted to gird his loins. “I was just…” He glanced around furtively, cursing at himself internally. He reached out and touched Spock’s sleeve before he could stop himself. That wasn’t part of the Plan. He stared at his hand, feeling the heat rise on his cheeks. “Noticing,” he finally said.

“Noticing,” Spock repeated flatly.

“Hell,” McCoy said accidentally-out-loud. “You’re pretty good at that, you know.”

Spock’s eyebrows drew together. He looked at the structure, a fully-fledged frown now prominent on his lips. He glanced back at McCoy from beneath his furrowed brow, and then down at McCoy’s hand. “You are...mocking me?” he guessed.

“No!” He yanked away his hand, feeling like he’d been burned. Jesus, McCoy could feel every eye in the room trained on him. A quick look behind him said that no one was actually looking—in fact, they were all studiously focused away from the exchange, which mean they were  _ definitely _ paying attention. McCoy bristled with embarrassment, hissing, “Spock just accept the compliment.”

Spock raised both eyebrows in his standard  _ wow, humans are weird _ look. “Very well,” he said. “It is accepted.” He turned back to the padd and contemplated the equation.

So much for that Plan. McCoy could feel himself blushing hot all over, and as soon as the structure was stabilized he beat a hasty retreat. Better paperwork than this, he thought miserably.

Leave it to a Vulcan to entirely miss the point of an affectionate gesture.

*

Spock was certain he was missing something. 

He was certain that somewhere in his interactions with McCoy there was a key piece of data he was neglecting to consider. He watched McCoy perform a hasty retreat, face red and head bowed, and resolved to give the matter due consideration. 

He developed several theories. Most plausible was the potential that McCoy had been made uncomfortable by their accidental (and he  _ did _ maintain it was accidental) intimacy the night before. Although at the time McCoy had seemed welcoming Spock knew that humans often viewed things differently “in the light of day,” as they said. He was still not certain what had driven him to sleep in McCoy’s bed last night, although he was thankful that he had woken early enough to avoid McCoy’s inevitable bad mood.

His second theory, also supported by the preponderance of the evidence, was that McCoy had truly been mocking him—or perhaps “messing with him” as Jim often characterized the act. There was a subtle human nuance that separated the two kinds of acts which Spock still did not fully understand, although he believed that McCoy was not a malicious man. He knew that McCoy often found reason to tease him, and therefore thought it likely that McCoy had been teasing him in the science lab despite his statement to the contrary. 

Third, he theorized that McCoy was still exhausted and not fully in control of his words. Perhaps McCoy had not slept as well as Spock assumed, or had been feigning sleep when Spock left that morning.

He rejected out-of-hand the idea that McCoy had been sincere in his compliment.

Spock now regretted his choice to work closely with McCoy to stabilize the nucleotide structure. He could not recall why, logically, he had called McCoy to stand beside him. It was only that some of the hollowness had filled with McCoy’s presence. But that feeling was illogical and Spock resolved to meditate on the true reason later.

More pressing at the moment than McCoy’s abrupt departure from the lab was the outcome. Spock’s science team was now looking at him oddly, and Spock attempted to decode their looks. Humans had the odd tendency to communicate more with a look than they did with words. Spock, of course, denied that he did anything similar. Regardless, his time with humans had taught him to read their facial expressions, and so he read theirs now.

They were angry with him.

Why? He wasn’t sure. Chen looked sadly at the door McCoy had disappeared through and then glanced back at Spock with with a look of disappointment. Spock deduced that Chen thought he had snubbed McCoy in some way, but how? Missing data piled up, but the precise nature of his slight was irrelevant. He had hurt McCoy and therefore needed to make amends.

Purely to maintain their charade, he reasoned later, approximately one hour after he had already decided to take McCoy on a walk through the arboretum to apologize.

McCoy was in a foul mood when Spock retrieved him from Sickbay. Spock could see the annoyance clearly in the downturn of his mouth and the tension of his shoulders. He remained angry for the duration of their walk, repeatedly asking Spock where they were going and “what the hell” they were going to do when they go there. Spock tolerated this, paying no mind to McCoy’s snit, as he knew McCoy meant little by it and hoped that it would dissipate during their date. 

As they stepped into the arboretum he got his wish—although not precisely how he hoped.

Instantly, McCoy turned inward, and his anger melted into a somber silence. He acquired a thoughtful look, the look of a man gazing at the photo of a child now grown and gone. 

Spock pursed his lips and kept his hands folded behind his back as they walked. Spock could have taken McCoy to the hydroponics bay, as they contained roughly the same flowers, but the arboretum was more spacious and more pleasantly arranged. Further, it was known as a romantic retreat among the crew. He considered the logic of his choice as they skirted around an oak tree which had been artificially aged to appear full grown. 

McCoy paused to look at it, and Spock stopped as well. He examined the leaves. They had a precise five-pointed shape and a translucent green color. Beside him McCoy shifted as though reaching for something, brushing against Spock’s sleeve, but then McCoy dropped his arm. 

Spock turned to look at him and saw that McCoy was not looking at the tree at all, but rather at the cluster of Denobulan bluebells at its base. Spock examined McCoy’s impassive profile for a moment, feeling something clench inside of him at the sight of McCoy so flat and unemotional. Gently, Spock pushed away the feeling.

“Doctor?”

McCoy startled as if from a dream. He looked askance at Spock and his face did an odd thing, momentarily expressing some deep, disturbing emotion that Spock had never seen before. Then McCoy looked away and his face was again impassive. “I’m sorry I don’t make for a very good husband, Spock.”

Spock felt his eyes widen in surprise without his volition. He took a step forward and inclined his head so that McCoy was forced to look at him. “What troubles you?”

McCoy’s eyes were the color of a stormy sea. “Trouble?” he chuckled, low and mirthless. “What doesn’t trouble me? You know, you’re much better at this than I am. Maybe that’s why my first real marriage went south.”

Real. Spock felt the word viscerally, but then he discarded the feeling. Of course McCoy was correct. Their marriage was not real. He was concerned, suddenly, that their tenuous hold to one another would snap. He was not sure what he would do if McCoy demanded they cease the rouse. They still had to be married in the Vulcan tradition, but more importantly Spock did not wish for McCoy to leave him. “I do not understand. Have I done something to displease you?”

“Displease me? Spock, look around. What do you see?”

Spock looked. “Plants.”

“Plants! And do you know what you’ve been bringing me?”

Spock thought. “...Flowers?”

“Every damn day since we’ve been married! Today was the first day you didn’t and I—” He laughed. “I actually started to get disappointed when I had to throw out the old one. It was all dried out and I thought, I just thought—” He shook his head violently. “And now do you know what you’ve done?”

Spock said nothing, uncertain.

McCoy threw his arms into the air, his voice a thin thread. “You’ve brought me a room of them!”

Spock realized suddenly that McCoy was on the verge of tears, although he had no idea why. He felt uncertain, or maybe that was panic, things were happening too quickly for his Vulcan control to take effect. “This room was already in existence?”

“Already in…” McCoy looked at him incredulously. “Listen to yourself. You bring me gifts, feed me, take care of me. You’re always there for me even when I’m detrimental to you. And what do I give you?”

Spock could think of many things. He thought first of McCoy’s warm hand against his arm just last night, wiping away the pain of his illogical fixation on command decisions over which he had no control. He thought of McCoy laughing, bright-eyed, as they ate together. He thought of McCoy working beside him, solid and supportive. He thought of McCoy teasing him during one of their frequent debates over logic. He thought of how McCoy had given him his patience as they grew used to one another’s company—Vulcan habits stepping on human needs. These things and more piled up in Spock’s mouth and he found he could not pick any one thing to say fast enough.

“Nothing,” McCoy finished for him. “I tried to give you a compliment today and you thought I was mocking you.”

It had been real, Spock thought, dazed.

“I—” McCoy turned away from Spock so that Spock could no longer see his face. “That’s all I’ve ever done, so of course you’d think that. I don’t know why you asked me to marry you, Spock. I’m the worst possible choice. We should have realized this sooner. No one is going to believe that you and I—that we could—we should just quit this now.” He abruptly began walking away.

Spock hastened after him, concerned. “Doctor,” he said, too loudly as they exited the arboretum. Crew people in the hall turned to look at them with curious eyes and so Spock rushed to McCoy’s side and attempted to restrain the burgeoning anger he felt at McCoy’s decision to begin this argument in a public place. “Dr. McCoy,” he whispered.

McCoy did not respond. Did not even seem to hear him—or indeed, to be breathing until they finally arrived at McCoy’s—their—quarters. McCoy punched his way in and stood in the middle of the room, suddenly gasping for breath as if to make up for it all.

Spock approached with caution, recalling how he had once approached an injured sehalt as a child. “Doctor, I—”

“Well, what do you think?” McCoy turned and Spock saw that he was smiling, but it was odd and lopsided. False. “Do you want to draw up the divorce papers or shall I? I guess we aren’t  _ really _ married yet, since we never did get over to Vulcan. Hell, we can get an annulment if you don’t mind explaining what that means to curious Vulcans.”

Spock felt a sudden, bright-hot burst of anger at McCoy’s irrationality. He seized hold of the emotion but it seemed to singe at his mental disciplines, burning him with its intensity, and he dropped it again. The tips of his fingers stung as the emotion spread like burning fire at his feet. “This argument serves no purpose,” he said flatly. “You entered into this contract knowing what was in store for you.”

“Oh, so now you won’t let me out of it? Is that how this works, Spock? You get your little green claws into someone and then you tear into them every time they try to escape?”

“Escape to where?” Spock asked rhetorically. “Why are you employing this metaphor? You previously asserted that you were upset I was too  _ kind _ . Why are you incapable of accepting affection?”

McCoy looked shocked, and then inexplicably more angry. “Too kind! As if you even know the meaning of the word. You’re one-hundred percent forced intimacy, Spock. You probably read in a book somewhere that illogical, emotional humans get sentimental over flowers and decided it was an easy way to try and win me over.”

Spock narrowed his eyes. “You know that to be true.”

“Well it worked! The whole crew thinks you like me now. But I don’t get a book on how to show Vulcans a little affection. I have to poke around and guess and when I make a mistake I’m the only one feeling the embarrassment, because it rolls right off your back! Do you know how hard it is to be the only one feeling anything here? You’re impervious to shame, Spock, but you’re certainly good at instilling it in others.”

Spock clenched his teeth, mind whirring. Some part of his mind filled in the missing data and realized why McCoy had left with such haste earlier. But most of his mind was now fully preoccupied with winning this argument. “Shame is an illogical, human emotion. You would do well to master it.”

“You would do well not to embarrass me!” McCoy was pacing back and forth, glaring at random objects but mostly at Spock. “Or at least tell me what the hell you’re thinking when those two neurons you call a brain decide to fire.”

Spock jolted involuntarily. That had been an insult. In fact, McCoy had called him  _ stupid _ . Spock could recall hundreds of arguments in which McCoy had mocked him for his heritage, his anti-emotionalism, and even his computer-like intelligence. Never had McCoy called him stupid. The insult hit Spock the way no other insult had before. To know that was what McCoy thought of him now… It saddened him. “You are being irrational.”

“So are you!” McCoy shouted.

“Perhaps I am!” Spock returned, almost as loud, and then he slammed his mouth shut with a click.

Silence fell, nearly deafening. McCoy seemed just as shocked by his outburst as he was, eyes slight round and wide. Then McCoy began to chuckle, still mirthless. “Why, Mr. Spock. Was that an illogical, emotional reaction?” When Spock refused to answer McCoy merely rolled his eyes. “I think that deserves a drink. This seems to be a pretty ‘thoughtful’ exchange, wouldn’t you agree?”

Spock knew that McCoy was not seriously asking him, and so he remained silent. He watched as McCoy retrieved the wine box Rand had given them and removed the aforementioned bottle, turning it in the light. The bottle was dark, almost black, filled with malice. Spock knew the thought was illogical, but he could not shake his impression.

His blood had boiled in the manner only a handful of times before, and in this moment he did not know precisely why he was so angry. Only that he was. That the anger inside of him seemed to come from every direction, piercing and violent, and it felt so familiar and yet distant—it felt like, felt like—

McCoy turned the bottle over in his hand and the anger echoing through the room shrank like a dying star. “Oh,” he said.

Spock felt dizzy. The emotions—the feelings—gone just as quickly as they had come over him. He placed his hand on his head to steady himself, breathing deeply in an out. He was thankful McCoy was not looking at him in his weakness. “What is it?”

“It’s chocolate wine.”

“Chocolate...wine?” Spock could barely piece together the words through another wave of dizziness. 

McCoy’s shoulders rose with the force of his breath, and then he sighed. “Just as the name implies. Wine with a bit of chocolate in it. I guess, ah, Rand wanted us to be able to share.”

The dizziness faded and Spock neatly compartmentalized his confusion. There would be time to examine it later. Now, he needed to focus. He moved to stand beside McCoy and frowned at the bottle, uncertain why it had shaken McCoy so absolutely. “I see. This is significant to you?”

McCoy’s grip on the bottle tightened and Spock could virtually see him mentally counting to ten. Then abruptly the tension left him. He smiled ruefully. “Spock,” he said after a moment of this, voice relaxed. “I’m—”

_ Sorry _ , Spock knew he would say. Indeed, the word rang through his head clearly in McCoy’s rich voice. “It is no matter,” Spock interrupted before he could say anything at all.

The look on McCoy’s face said that he thought it did, indeed, matter a great deal. But he let it pass. “Why don’t you order something from the replicator and we’ll each have a glass of this?”

There was no reason not to, and so Spock retrieved meal number four from their low-yield replicator. 

McCoy had busied himself at the table. He’d gotten out the glasses they’d received from Jim and Spock watched as he worked the cork from the bottle and poured them each a generous portion. McCoy raised the wine to his mouth and sipped, leaving his upper lip stained red. He licked at it and released a deep sigh.

Spock found it fascinating, all the different sighs McCoy made. He resolved to catalogue them more closely. This was a sigh of contemplation. Perhaps happiness. But also embarrassment as McCoy flickered his gaze up to Spock and then back down.

“Go easy on this. It’s got a bit of a kick.”

Spock bowed his head and accepted a glass. He swirled it as he had once seen McCoy do and inhaled the scent. It was pungent. McCoy chuckled at him, amused as Spock drank. 

“Acceptable,” he said, tipping his head to the side as he contemplated the flavors.

“I’m glad,” McCoy said quietly.

They sat and began eating, and Spock recognized that things were different between them now. A haze of discomfort hung over McCoy, but at least the unnatural anger had left Spock. He distracted McCoy from his melancholy with an old story of Ensign Mulcahy accidentally putting their model of the Gamma Centauri system together backwards, resulting in Spock questioning his equations for several days before discovering the error. McCoy was laughing by the end of his story, wiping tears from his shining blue eyes, and Spock wanted desperately to tell McCoy that this was it. This was what McCoy brought to their relationship. This easy laughter which Spock had no access to, but which instilled within him emotions he should not have felt—but also did not terribly mind feeling.

He said nothing. The words were too big for his mouth. He listened to McCoy’s story of the latest paperwork debacle and sipped the wine.

It had a curious effect on him. Spock lost sensation in his fingertips and became more impulsive. A combination, he reasoned, of the chocolate and the alcohol. Perhaps he had inherited a weakness for both. Twice during the dinner he asked McCoy to attend, just for the practice of course, and both times he was shocked when he couldn’t feel McCoy’s emotions through their linked fingers.

McCoy just laughed at him, and the demonstration of his emotions was enough.

It was late when McCoy finally began yawning, listing gently to one side. Spock eyed the couch with distaste but it was McCoy who stood and stretched his arms above his head, smiling down at Spock with undisguised affection.

“Coming to bed?”

He should have meditated first. But, he reasoned, he was drunk. He curled up beside his husband with one had rested atop McCoy’s. He slept peacefully despite the tingling in his fingers

*

Behind the oak tree in the arboretum, Yeoman Rand finished making out with her girlfriend.

“Do you think we should tell someone?” Lieutenant Tamura asked.

“About what?” Rand asked, feigning confusion. She fixed Tamura’s smudged lipstick.

Tamura huffed. “About Mr. Spock and Dr. McCoy fighting. I mean, they always fight, but that was really something else.”

“I know.” Rand sighed and shook her head. “No, I don’t think so. Let’s not spread rumors,” she said, already planning exactly what she would say to Chapel tomorrow at breakfast.


	7. Chapter 7

Not one person had questioned their marriage.

It hadn’t occurred to him before. McCoy had been too swept up in the excitement and panic of the wedding, then too worried about falling into a plausible routine, and then the whole debacle on the planet had left him shaken...But now he couldn’t stop thinking about it.  _ None _ of the crew had raised so much as a peep of concern. Chapel had even called it “next steps” and made allusions to how in love they were. When McCoy awoke the next morning to a cold bed and a splitting wine-induced headache he realized, oh God, people knew he was in love with  _ Spock _ .

He wondered how everyone had figured it out before him.

Unfortunately, now that he had figured it out he had to deal with it. Getting furiously mad had not dealt with it. Getting plastered on wine had not dealt with it. Fighting with Spock over nothing at all had not dealt with it.

Although, he thought as he contemplated the freshly picked Denobulan bluebell in the vase by his computer, Spock seemed to have forgiven him.

McCoy couldn’t forgive himself, though. He needed to get a handle on this. First things first, he had to have a real conversation with Spock about their boundaries. The finger kisses were most worrisome because they gave Spock a direct line to his brain, but really everything warranted a discussion. They still hadn’t really  _ talked  _ about how to keep up the charade. McCoy realized that was partly his own fault, since he had dodged every attempt Spock had made to open up to him. The idea of open communication still freaked him out. But it meant that he’d just been stabbing around in the dark, uncertain where the lines were. And look where that had gotten him! A hangover and a cold and empty bed to match his heart. 

He needed to talk to Spock.

But first: a hangover hypo.

He dragged himself down to sickbay and gave himself a hefty dose, and then realized Christine was standing three centimeters behind him.

“Jesus, Christine! Are you trying to scare me into an early grave?”

She narrowed her eyes at him. “The Captain wishes to speak with you,” she said, turning smartly on her heel and marching away.

McCoy figured he’d done something to upset her, but he couldn’t for the life of him figure out what it could have been. He’d barely been in Sickbay a full minute. He put it out of his mind and went to see Jim.

“How are you feeling this morning?” he asked, grinning as Jim groaned in defeat. Groaning was good. It meant that Jim was still alive enough to be annoyed at the world.

“Bones. My friend. My savior. Light of my life. I have but one request to make of you as I lie here on my death bed... Get me the hell out of here!”

“No way. You’ve still got twenty-four hours of observation left.”

Jim whined. “What if I make it an order?”

“Mine supercede yours, so you can forget it. Are you still in pain?”

“Only from sitting here too long doing nothing.”

McCoy rolled his eyes and pulled out his medical tricorder. He gave Jim a thorough examination and was pleased by what he found. Jim’s lung had healed nicely, although he still had a five-percent decrease in lung capacity. McCoy would have to keep an eye on that. The bone-knitter had sealed the fractures in his ribs and even his collarbone—notoriously difficult to stitch—was acting like there had never been anything wrong at all. McCoy was pleased by his own handiwork.

“What’s the news, Bones? Do your instruments register how I’m dying of boredom? Because I am.”

“Did you ask Christine to get me just so you could complain?” he groused.

For a split second Jim looked guilty, but then his face smoothed into joviality again. “No, not at all. I actually wanted to know if I’d be getting out of this hellhole before the end of the week?”

“You already know you are,” McCoy said, confused.

“Great! Just in time for your one-month anniversary with Spock.”

McCoy’s jaw dropped.

Jim laughed. “I’ve got captain’s prerogative to invite you to dinner. I expect both of you there with bells on.”

“Since when is that a tradition?”

“All traditions have to start somewhere, Bones. So are you coming or not?”

McCoy sighed deeply and made sure to give Jim his best glare. Jim was utterly unaffected. “I’ll have to ask Spock.”

“So ask him! It’s not much of an anniversary dinner if only one-half of the happy couple shows up.”

He grumbled. “And you better serve the best damn steak and grits this side of Andoria.”

Jim smiled with fond amusement at McCoy’s desperate bartering. “Spock can’t eat that.”

“Who cares about what a Vulcan eats?” He glanced at his tricorder so he didn’t have to look Jim in the eye. “But you should get him a bleu cheese salad. He’s recently taken a shine to them.”

Silence. When he looked up Jim was beaming at him. Just for that he gave him another exam, as punishment.

Christine was on his case the rest of the day. She asked him how he was feeling no fewer than eight times, which was really getting in the way of his wallowing in self-pity. Her hovering had distracted him from crafting a plan of attack, so by the time Spock picked him up McCoy still didn’t know how to start a conversation. He just knew he had to say  _ something _ .

Spock glided into Sickbay looking as ethereally beautiful as he always did—and how had McCoy not noticed that he  _ noticed _ Spock? Spock’s rich brown gaze was half-hooded, and his face was soft. McCoy had the thought that his chin would be perfect to hold during a kiss and his heart skipped a beat.

Spock held out two fingers.

“Actually,” McCoy blurted, panicked. “I wanted to talk to you about that.”

Spock blinked in surprise as McCoy grabbed his sleeve—careful to avoid touching skin—and drug him into the office. He could feel Christine’s gaze on his back as they went.

Door shut and locked, McCoy slumped against his desk. “...Thank you for the flower this morning.”

He could practically hear Spock’s eyebrows traveling higher. “If you wish for me to refrain from bringing them to you, I will of course acquiesce. I… gathered from our post-argument revelry that you did not actually wish that.”

“I do. I mean, I don’t. I  _ don’t  _ want you to stop bringing me flowers. Please bring me flowers.” McCoy laughed, winced, and gulped, stuttering on like a damn fool. “I-it’s a good display of affection. For the crew, anyway. If you suddenly stopped being seen picking flowers they might start asking questions.”

“Logical,” Spock agreed placidly.

“But the finger touch thing…”

“Our kisses,” Spock corrected.

“Right. It, uh… You can hear my thoughts through it?”

“No more than you can hear mine. It is only an emotional transference.” He paused. “It disturbs you?”

“That’s not… the right word.” He finally looked up at Spock, imploring him to understand without making him say it. Spock merely seemed confused. “I was just thinking, do we actually  _ need _ to share those emotions just to keep up the charade? The touch should be enough, since it looks the same from the outside.”

Spock nodded thoughtfully. “That is true.”

“Can you turn it off?”

Spock grew more introspective. “Yes. I will erect shields to do so. You are correct in asserting that we do not require the emotional transference in order to keep up appearances. It was an invasion of privacy. My apologies, Doctor.”

McCoy relaxed. There, that was the biggest hurdle out of the way. Now that he knew he was in love with Spock he couldn’t risk Spock finding out just from a casual finger-touch, and he trusted Spock to keep his word and not dig into his mind. “Don’t worry about it,” he said. “There’s, uh, one other thing. Jim invited us over for our anniversary supper. And...I think it’s time we had a real discussion about maintaining our fake marriage.”

Spock nodded. He sat down in the chair across from McCoy and said, “Where shall we begin?”

They began with the flowers. They talked for several hours as Spock detailed what Vulcans considered to be signs of affection—which was: not very much. Spock spent more time negating McCoy’s suggestions than actually listing anything. McCoy wound up with a handful of random trivia: Vulcans gifted fruits the way humans did flowers; composing music or poetry was often considered romantic; once, Spock’s father had told him to meditate while thinking of T’pring, back when they were still engaged. Other than that Spock didn’t know of anything.

It was a bit disappointing. They kept talking as McCoy drew boundaries. Public displays of affection were limited to finger-touches. No human kisses or hugs just to show off.

It was late, then, and McCoy realized he was hungry. He started to eat one of the bars he kept in his desk but instead Spock dragged him down to the cafeteria. They ate quickly, talking about nothing of any importance, and then picked up the thread of their conversation the moment they were in their quarters again. McCoy poured himself a glass of bourbon for strength. 

After a sip and deep sigh, he said, “Spock, someday you’re going to have to have sex again.”

Spock frowned. “Not so.”

“You keep telling yourself that in about six years and see where it gets you.”

Spock looked guilty then. “It will...not be so serious the second time. I neglected myself out of a wish to deny the evidence.”

“Don’t neglect yourself again,” McCoy scolded. “I can only fake Jim’s death so many times before I start developing a complex.”

“When my… time approaches there are resources available on Vulcan.” He glanced at McCoy, then away. “They will exercise discretion.”

He ruthlessly ignored the stabbing pain of jealousy he felt at Spock’s words. McCoy had brought this on himself. “Good,” he said curtly, and took another drink to steel his nerves for the next Big Discussion. “Spock, your advisors are going to want you to have kids.”

Spock opened his mouth. Closed it again. McCoy had to laugh at how gobsmacked Spock looked.

“You didn’t realize…?”

“I had not considered… Logically, yes, they will require someone to carry on the line.”

“Unless your brother has a child I don’t know about—” He stopped, realizing that with how little Spock told him about his life that might be true. He waited for Spock to shake his head before going on, “Then it’s going to fall on your shoulders.”

“Legally, anyone I accept as my child will be considered such. When it becomes necessary we can adopt.”

McCoy nodded. “Okay,” he said, feeling utterly exhausted. “Okay,” he said again. “Is there anything else?”

Spock twirled his glass. His eyes were as dark as the wine. “Where would you have me sleep?”

_ With me _ , he almost said, but he bit his tongue. He was tired. So tired. Already exhausted at the thought of continuing to lie now that he knew the truth. He looked at Spock and tried to quell the deep longing he felt, the inexorable pull towards that damned Vulcan with his stoic gaze, perfect hair, bowed lips.

When he spoke, McCoy nearly choked on his own words. “We can switch off. Like we were planning to.”

Spock nodded his assent, and it was settled.

*

The crew settled into their seats like rustling fabric. McCoy sat in the corner and watched Spock at the front of the room.

Spock stood looking out over the crowd. Perhaps he was thinking of the last time the crew had gathered together like this, for their wedding. A much happier time. McCoy let his eyes fall shut and he considered how the room had looked bedecked in green and blue flowers, echoing with the lilting sound of Scotty’s music.

Today there were lilies. And the quiet was deafening.

Jim spoke first. Although he had been on the planet unconscious during the bulk of the attack it was still his duty to reassure the crew. His voice echoed through the cavernous observation deck. 

“As captain I have many duties to attend to. Not all are happy ones.”

And he spoke of keeping one’s cool under fire. The utter mystery of space. Of the desire everyone in this room had to explore and learn and grow. And about how sometimes that exploration was dangerous. Dangerous in a way that no one could predict.

He stepped back and Spock stepped forward. He clutched a datapadd in one hand but he did not consult it. “Ensign W. C. Mulcahy,” he said, and paused. Silence hung like a dark cloud over the room and McCoy’s head swam. He watched, distraught, as Spock got a hold of himself. He wondered if anyone else could see the utter turmoil behind the smooth facade of emotional unavailability. 

“Ensign W. C. Mulcahy,” Spock said again. “Was an exemplary Poker player.”

A shocked laugh rippled through the crowd. They listened with rapt attention as Spock told them of his work with Ensign Mulcahy. McCoy had only met the man in passing, but listening to Spock made him feel like he had really known him. He felt the loss now more acutely, more deeply. He realized vaguely that for all Spock pretended to remain removed from the personal lives of his coworkers he was actually deeply interested. 

Spock told them of the twin families Mulcahy had left behind. One on Earth, a small family just beginning. The other here, a large family, somewhat unorthodox. 

McCoy felt cold. He watched Spock set down the padd—he still hadn’t looked at it, and McCoy wondered what was written on it—and walk towards the torpedo tube. He said something else, so softly that McCoy couldn’t hear, and depressed the button.

It was over. Soberly, the crew gathered themselves and began to trickle out. McCoy sat a moment, watching Spock, and then stood. His legs wobbled like water.

“Hey,” he said.

Spock turned to him. There was a darkness to his gaze that hurt McCoy in unexpected places. Spock said nothing.

“Are you okay?”

Spock looked at the now-empty torpedo tube. “It is always wasteful,” he began hesitantly. “To lose such a valued member of the crew.”

McCoy smiled sadly at that. He hated the way Spock was standing too straight and too stiff, and before he could stop himself he was reaching out. He slipped his hand into Spock’s and held him fast and felt—

Skin. Spock’s palm was warm and dry and soft, but the tips of his fingers were calloused. His hand flexed and then gripped McCoy back, tightly, near-desperately. McCoy felt the pressure and intensity of it all in that fierce grip.

But not what Spock was feeling.

Oh, he could read it well enough, in the bend of Spock’s shoulders, the darkness of his gaze. Times like these crumbled Spock’s emotionless facade like wet paper. But he couldn’t  _ feel _ it. Spock’s walls were neatly erected, just exactly as he had asked for. But he regretted that now, in this silent moment. He wanted to feel what Spock felt and be felt in turn. He wanted to reassure Spock that it was okay. That it wasn’t his fault. He didn’t even know if Spock still blamed himself or if the sadness had shifted, taken on a new tenor.

He felt guilty for letting his own feelings get in the way over the past few days. He’d taken up Spock’s time and energy with his own worries about their marriage when he should have been supportive.

“I’m sorry,” he said. He didn’t know exactly what he was apologizing for. Perhaps for everything.

“As am I,” Spock said softly back.

McCoy squeezed his reassurance, wishing he could pour every ounce of his compassion into Spock and fill him to the brim with affection. But he couldn’t. Their hands were just skin and flesh and bone, and he could not feel Spock anymore than Spock could feel him. 

He just held on for dear life.

*

“Just hang on a moment,” McCoy said, opening the wine box and pulling out a bottle. “We should bring this.”

“Why would we do such a thing?”

“Because it’s  _ polite _ , Spock.” McCoy explained with a frown, his grip on the bottle of wine rapidly approaching dangerously-tense.

Spock felt himself frown in response. “Yeoman Rand intended that bottle for us.”

“And we will drink it,” McCoy said with patience. “Come on, Spock. Do you really believe we’ll get another chance for a ‘quiet night in’? On  _ this _ ship?”

Spock was forced to concede the point.

In truth, he remained uncertain about the intention of the evening. He had noticed a chill in the air since the day of their Discussion regarding the specifics of their charade. He thought of their Discussion just like that—capital letter and all. Spock had noticed McCoy’s growing tension and despondency, and had felt those feelings echoed within himself. Spock believed that under other circumstances McCoy would have been looking forward to a dinner with the captain. But now whatever enjoyment he would have derived seemed...tarnished.

Spock followed McCoy into the turbolift, gazing at him. “The captain is aware of the circumstances of our marriage,” he noted McCoy’s displeased twitch, “Once we have entered his quarters there will be no need to maintain the charade. You may relax.”

“You saying I’m tense?” McCoy growled, very tensely.

Spock merely pursed his lips. 

McCoy glanced at him askance and his shoulders drooped. “Sorry,” he said. “You’re right, I am tense.” He slipped the bottle into his other hand and raised his fingers. “How are you feeling about everything?”

Spock arched his brow and kissed McCoy in the empty turbolift. “I expect an evening spent with the Captain will be...enjoyable.”

McCoy chuckled, dropping his hand. “I don’t know too many things Vulcans find enjoyable.”

Spock considered the light in McCoy’s eye and found that he couldn’t agree. He thought about mentioning that he enjoyed McCoy’s company, but before he could the turbolift doors swished open and McCoy was moving again. Spock followed a step behind.

Upon arriving at Jim’s quarters Spock saw that his hopes for McCoy were dashed, for both Mr. Scott and Nurse Chapel were also in attendance. Spock got the impression that this was not the standard protocol for an anniversary dinner, and judging by Jim’s harried look he was correct in his assumption. Still, he nodded curtly to everyone and watched McCoy hand over the bottle of wine.

Jim looked impressed. “This is pretty nice stuff, Bones. And chocolate, too?”

McCoy shuffled. “We wanted something we could all enjoy.” He glanced at Spock and graced him with a warm smile, his blue eyes twinkling.

Spock froze, uncertain. He felt a strange tingling in his fingers and toes. It took him a long moment to remember that McCoy’s smile was not real. Was not for him. McCoy was merely playing the part of an infatuated husband. Spock reminded himself sternly to maintain his emotional control. “Indeed. The good doctor has already tested the limits of my enjoyment of chocolate wine.”

The humans laughed, and Spock considered the tension to be broken.

Mr. Scott also produced a bottle of brandy and McCoy virtually prostrated himself in his thanks. He poured a scant finger of drink, though, and Spock did not see him refill the glass even once during their night. 

Chapel lovingly interrogated them about how things were going, and Jim expertly maneuvered the conversation away from anything that might implicate them in their deception. Spock felt gratitude that he was not required to do the maneuvering himself, for McCoy was too busy joking and laughing with Mr. Scott to keep track of what he was saying. It was restful not to attend to too many awkward questions. It gave him time to focus on the warmth infusing him from two angles: first, from the chocolate diffusing throughout his body, burning at his fingertips and leaving him tingling. Second, from McCoy pressed against his side, hip-to-knee on the tiny couch. McCoy was relaxed against him, pleasantly rumpled, emitting an entirely different sort of warmth that nonetheless left Spock feeling heady and drunk.

Spock had not seen him so relaxed since their Discussion. He had missed McCoy’s easy smiles.

One glass of wine into the night the first course of dinner arrived on a cart straight from the chef’s kitchen. The five of them rose from the common area and Spock offered McCoy a kiss, as was the custom on Vulcan when moving from place to place. McCoy returned it without batting an eye—in fact, he had a small sweet smile on his lips. It made Spock wish desperately to know what McCoy was feeling. Was he truly happy? Did he mean to look at Spock with such open and unadulterated joy? Or was it a ruse? Did the sadness still ring within him?

But Spock felt nothing. Their fingers were mere skin without depth. Spock was true to the promise he had made during their Discussion. He would not betray McCoy’s trust in him.

An enormous bleu cheese salad greeted them and Spock nibbled at it delicately, enjoying the rich and complex flavors. He turned his thoughts away from McCoy beside him, from the force of his happiness as he laughed in a way which Spock could no longer engender.

Spock eventually recognized that Jim was more clever than he at first appeared. The invitation of Mr. Scott and Nurse Chapel to their dinner had, apparently, been artfully designed to increase McCoy’s relaxation without unduly taxing their charade. Mr. Scott was boisterous and easily distractible, meaning he was unlikely to notice if something was amiss. And Chapel clearly loved McCoy as a dear friend. There was an ease to their interactions that seemed to have a calming effect on McCoy. Spock knew she trusted McCoy unconditionally. If he said their marriage was one of love, she would believe them.

But the evening had a secondary function: it was a test. If they could not weather the storm of Chapel’s well-meaning questions and Mr. Scott’s unintentional conversational blunders, then they would be hopeless on Vulcan. Their ruse would deteriorate like a burst warp field.

Of course, they still had some time before they would would need to put their relationship to the test on Vulcan. Plenty of time to move away from the awkwardness which had resulted from their Discussion. Plenty of time to perfect their story.

Dinner was steak for the humans and portobello mushrooms for Spock, with sides of lavish grits and vegetables and another tall glass of wine for good measure. They chatted on through dessert—vanilla ice cream, thankfully, as Spock was quite tipsy by this point.

He was halfway through the rounded scoop when the comm rang.

It was Uhura. “Private message for Mr. Spock.”

He nodded and rose, kissing his husband and accepting Mr. Scott’s offer to take the message privately next door. He shut the door behind him and keyed on the computer.

“Hello, Mother,” he said, and listened closely as she began to talk. “I see,” he said. And then a bit later, more quietly, “I see.” He listened to the heaving of her breath. He wished to say, “Please do not cry,” but he could not. He could only listen. 

There was silence for a long time. He whispered, “I see,” once more.

Spock rose. He could feel, everywhere within him, the hollow feeling he had been feeling before but magnified a thousandfold. His limbs were not his. His body was not his. His body moved around without him, carrying him back into the room where McCoy’s laughter rang. The intensity of the hollow emotion, which had been so diffuse before, now stunned him with its force. He noted this all with detachment, a detachment quite different from the one he cultivated through meditation.

He would call this emotion: grief. Grief over the loss of what might have been.

His body took him back into the room. His body sat down. McCoy looked concerned but also distant, as though Spock were viewing him through the fisheye of his viewscope. Perhaps it was a result of the ringing in Spock’s ears. McCoy reached out and touched Spock’s shoulder lightly, hesitantly. Spock looked at his hand and realized with clear and utter certainly why he had always felt this hollow loss when looking at McCoy.

He was in love with a man who could never love him back.

“My father has died,” he said simply, and the weak shell of his emotional control fractured and cracked from the unnatural force of McCoy’s hand on his shoulder.


	8. Chapter 8

“The practice of love offers no place of safety. We risk loss, hurt, pain. We risk being acted upon by forces outside our control.”   
― bell hooks, All About Love: New Visions

 _k’oh-nar_   
( _noun_ )

1\. cultural fear of emotional vulnerability and exposure;  
2\. feeling of being completely exposed in some way;   
3\. an unnatural fear of losing control in an extremely intense, emotional situation

* * *

 

Part II

*

The sands of vulcan twisted in the searing wind, buffeting the stone outcroppings that loomed over the desert. McCoy concentrated on putting one foot in front of the other and wiped the sweat from his eyes.

“We really couldn’t have beamed just a little closer?”

Spock looked at him. “It is tradition to enter the lands by foot, so that the Sovereign may see all that they rule.”

McCoy looked around. “Sand.”

Spock’s lips twitched. “You may be unable to see with your human eyesight, but there is also a cactus on the ridge of that dune.”

McCoy squinted towards where he was pointing, but he saw nothing. He got the feeling Spock was making fun of him, and so he pouted.

They continued their march over the arid tract of land. Spock made him stop twice to check his vital signs, but the tri-ox and thermoregulation hypos he had taken meant he was doing just fine. He simply liked to complain. He told Spock it made him feel better to grumble, and Spock looked at him incredulously but didn’t try to stop him. McCoy counted it as another argument won.

Truthfully, McCoy was just amazed they had made it to Vulcan at all. The six weeks since Spock had received the comm from his mother blurred together in McCoy’s mind. There had been the hectic rush to get M’Benga up to speed on taking over the duties of chief medical officer, coupled with picking out a replacement medic from the (woefully unacceptable) list that Starfleet had sent them. Jim had pointed the ship towards Vulcan at the first opportunity, but then they’d gotten side-tracked by a mission of mercy at a colony, followed by the ship’s engines breaking down due to unknown radiation, followed by getting chased around the neutral zone for ten days and being forced to play hide-and-seek while McCoy sat in his office white-knuckling his desk and practicing the calming meditation techniques Spock had taught him to no avail. Throughout all of it Spock had been receiving occasional communications from Vulcan and drilling McCoy on politics he really wished he didn’t have to care about. His head was starting to swim from the random trivia, history, political infighting, and petty bickering he was now expected to remember in excruciating detail.

But they had made it. Vulcan spun out before them, an endless desert of possibilities. McCoy glanced to Spock, considering him.

Today was the first time they had really been alone together without the spectre of ship’s business or the politics of Vulcan hanging over them. He noted that some of the tension—which had slowly dissipated from it’s horrific peak after Spock had received the notice of his father’s death—was back in Spock’s shoulders. His stress was palpable even from a distance, but McCoy knew better than to say anything about it. No, commenting on Spock’s clear anxiety—let alone offering a supportive arm to lean on—would be too much like pretending they had a real marriage.

His heart clenched in his chest and he internally cursed himself. The long trip and constant worry had done nothing to dampen the intensity of his feelings for Spock. If anything, they had deepened. He was finding it more difficult to get up each day and pretend that things between them were merely collegial.

Spock suddenly looked out over the landscape. “Wait here,” he said. “I will be only a moment.”

McCoy stopped and took a breather on a nearby rock, pulling the straw brim of his sunhat low over his eyes. He mopped at his brow and watched Spock make a straight beeline for a distant grove of—bushes? Cacti? It was too difficult to tell from this distance. Spock’s robes billowed about his ankles as he walked, making him seem odd and different from the way he looked in uniform. He was almost ethereal. He’d pulled those robes out of a dusty hewn-clay box when they’d arrived in the star system, and McCoy had half expected them to be motheaten. But of course they were just as clean and pristine as the day Spock had put them away.

The robes had been a pain to get into. Spock had needed help getting into the complicated mess of fabric and fasteners in odd (illogical, if you asked McCoy) places. It was, of course, the spouse's job to assist him in dressing.

McCoy rubbed his thumb and forefinger together, still remembering the surprising softness of the fabric. The robes had been heavy and white and they seemed to wick away heat, leaving his palms cool and his fingers tingling. The threads which, from a distance, appeared to be merely to keep the piece together were actually intricate embroidery in the same iridescent white as the rest of the fabric. Leave it to a Vulcan to go to all that work creating such a beautiful work of art and then hide it by making it the same color as the canvas.

Understated. That’s what Spock had called it. McCoy had to smile at the memory.

Spock was just a tiny white dot on the horizon, milling about, and then he slowly got larger and larger as he walked back to where McCoy was sitting. McCoy found his smile turning fond, his heart warm and hammering in his chest.

“For you,” Spock said. “I am afraid the flora on Vulcan are not as aesthetically pleasing as those cultivated on the ship, but I hope this will suffice.”

His heart clenched as he accepted the small, dusty-red flower. It was nearly the same color as the sand and the petals were a scant two centimeters across, but it was lovely. It hurt him to look at it, but he ignored the feeling, accepting the flower and tucking it behind his ear. “How do I look?” he asked, batting his eyelashes demurely.

Spock studied him, eyes dark for one long moment. Perhaps it was the angle of the sun. “Acceptable,” he said finally. “We are nearly there.”

It took them only twenty more minutes to spot the low building that was what apparently passed for a castle on Vulcan. Spock had explained that his family actually owned dozens of homes such as this one, all across the lands of Vulcan, but that this was where his mother was staying as she passed through the traditional five-month grieving process, and so this was where they were going first.

As they approached, McCoy began to see why a human would rather stay here than in the high desert. It was quiet and peaceful, and as they walked down into the valley the temperature dropped a few degrees. It probably got cold at night, but on a planet that didn’t believe in air-conditioning that was easier to deal with than excessive heat. The estate was just a series of perhaps thirty or forty buildings all spider-webbed out with one larger estate in the center. Even from a distance McCoy could see the hum and bustle of activity—servants and some of the un-landed nobles who lived here, no doubt.

No one paid them any mind as they entered the estate, which was really more like a small town. Everyone moved about sedated and regal from one place to the next, and McCoy could see that they were all wearing the small paper masks of mourning which looked a bit like a sand-red surgical mask, if such a mask had been intricately folded in the Vulcan tradition. They prevented speech, and the Vulcans seemed to think that also extended to preventing polite eye-contact.

The whole planet was supposed to be in mourning over the passing of their King—or Sovereign, rather, since Vulcans used an odd word for their ruler that didn’t quite translate into either Standard or English—until Amanda was done. Except for Spock and the heads of council, who apparently weren’t supposed to mourn at all (and McCoy had mightily resisted the urge to point out that two different systems of mourning was utterly illogical), and McCoy himself who wasn’t allowed until they got officially married here on Vulcan. Which was fine by him. Sarek had been no friend of his. Perhaps he had been a good man, but he was far too distant and rude to his son, and the only reason McCoy would have gone through any rituals would have been to support Spock.

As they moved towards the center of town McCoy had to shake the feeling that he was on Earth. It wasn’t due to anything big—just a plant here, and oak-wood sigh there, the smell of Earth spices hanging in the air. Amanda’s influence, no doubt, leaking from her home likely without her noticing it. It was eerie to see all of these things slightly out of place. Not quite fitting in.

The estate was large and overlooked the town. The staircase leading up to it seemed to be made of obsidian. Amanda stood at the top of it, gazing down.

Her paper mask was infinitely more complex than the simple masks the rest of the Vulcans had been wearing. It flared up high over her cheekbones like wings of fire and framed her intelligent blue eyes. The beak of it was long, reminding McCoy chillingly of a plague doctor’s mask. If he wasn’t mistaken, her mask was also a slightly different color: instead of stone-red, it evoked the color of human blood.

McCoy shivered, discomfited, and then took a deep breath to prepare for their performance.

He and Spock had practiced this for days back on the ship. It was a simple enough exchange, but getting even one small piece wrong could be disastrous. Spock bowed at the waist and McCoy, one step behind him, bowed as well. They waited twelve seconds, then stood. Spock held out his hand, but said nothing, and it was up to McCoy to step forward and attend to him. He kept his eyes downcast, staring at Amanda’s toes.

She was wearing sandals. For some reason, he found that funny. Maybe the nervousness was making him giddy.

They completed the kiss and, as usual, he felt none of the rush of emotion that had so impressed him early on in their marriage. Spock had maintained his promise not to allow the exchange of emotion and McCoy was glad for it. Truly.

Kiss complete, McCoy stepped forward. He knelt at the base of the stairs and said, in stilted Vulcan for the words were still foreign to him and he’d worked more on memorizing the sounds than the meaning, although he knew that too, “ _Sovereign, I am a visitor from a far distant land. I accept you as my rightful ruler. Before all the land of your people and your loyal subjects, I ask to enter your home and live with you as I court the Prince in the tradition of your people_.”

The irony of a human asking this of another human was not lost on him.

Silence fell after his proclamation, and after a few tense moments McCoy couldn’t resist glancing up. He looked past her sandals and saw that she wasn’t looking at him at all. She was gazing out over town, eyebrows drawn together in a frown much like the one Spock often wore. He wished he could see more of her face to know what she was thinking.

Finally, she stepped down. McCoy frowned, knowing this wasn’t part of the plan. She was supposed to act aloof and disappear back into the estate and maybe let him know in a week or so whether or not he could come in. Instead, she walked down and held out her hand to him. He hesitated, but he was in too deeply now. He accepted her grasp.

She helped him up, and her eyes were twinkling. No need to wonder what she was thinking now; she was smiling, somewhere under that blood red mask. She kept hold of his hand as she looked to Spock and raised her brow at him. She held out her other hand.

Spock, to his credit, didn’t hesitate at all. He stepped forward and the reach somehow turned into an embrace, and they hugged fiercely at the base of the steps as Amanda held fast to McCoy’s hand.

He could feel her trembling in his grasp.

*

His mother grasped the beak of her mourning mask and lifted it from her face, placing it haphazardly on the hewn-stone table.

Spock frowned. “Mother, have you completed the stage of silence?”

She sent him a piercing look, the one that had always troubled him as a child, and still discomfited him now. “You know very well that I haven’t.”

“Then,” Spock said, glancing at McCoy and then back to her. “Why have you removed your mask? And spoken?”

She rolled her eyes, and Spock felt even more like a small child not quite understanding why adults do as they do. “We’re alone now, and I don’t know when I’m going to get another chance to talk to my son and the wonderful man he’s brought home to meet me. The council is stealing you from me in a week, and so until then I intend to make the most of our limited time together.” She glared at him, arms crossed over her body. “Is that acceptable?”

He inclined his head. “As you are the rightful ruler of this land you could, if you so wished, do away with the mourning requirement entirely.”

Her eyes filled with tears. “Oh, Spock.”

They were suddenly hugging again, and Spock held her tightly. He could feel the intensity of her grief and anguish even through their robes. He didn’t try to block it out; he understood, with a son’s instinct, that she needed them both to share this. He took as much of it as he could inside of himself and placed it next to his own unexamined feelings on the subject and then closed the box on both sets of emotions, shoving them away in a deep recess of his mind. He would deal with them later. Much later.

McCoy was looking away from them, respectful of their moment. His frame made his discomfort clear, and the image of him turned away made something within Spock ring out, some emotion which echoed through him before finally resolving into the desire to _protect_. He gently disentangled himself from his mother.

“Doctor,” he said softly. “Perhaps you could fetch us a glass of water?”

McCoy nodded and seemed on the verge of speaking, but instead he disappeared down the hallway.

Fetching water should occupy his attention for a while. McCoy did not know the layout of the building, nor where the water would be kept. More than that, however, McCoy would give them some time alone. That was what they needed.

His mother was still shaking, but her tears did not fall. He helped her to the lounge cushion on the ground in front of the bay window and held her arm as she sat weakly. He knelt beside her. His eyes fell to the tea stain on the floor, and he thought again of sharing space.

She looked out the window, her face scrunched in pain. “How are you feeling about it, Spock?” she asked quietly.

“I cannot answer.”

She turned to frown at him, and he shook his head.

“It is not out of some Vulcan sense of logic that I do not answer,” he explained softly. “I truly do not know. I have no words for what I have experienced.”

She seemed to find his answer acceptable. “I understand. You and your father… I wish that you had both had more time, so that he could have seen the error of his ways and the hurt between you could have healed enough for you to speak.”

Spock said nothing. He had little desire to discuss this, but he did not wish to contradict her.

She sighed and looked out the window again. “You came on a beautiful day.”

“Yes,” Spock agreed. “The weather is acceptable to Leonard as well, although he claims it is too hot.”

Her mouth twitched. “Get used to that, if you can. I don’t believe your father ever quite understood the human urge to complain about the temperature.”

“It does seem your species derives great enjoyment from lamenting that which you cannot change.”

“Well, we could change it, you see. We’ve offered to share our environmental control technology with Vulcan dozens of times. I recall that your father was Ambassador to many negotiations where that particular point was brought up. I think humans don’t quite understand why you wouldn’t _want_ to have it a bit cooler.”

“What is, is. Why change what is already acceptable?”

“Maybe that should be my first royal decree,” she went on quietly, seeming lost in thought. “Fans for everyone, and a big bag of ice. What do you think?”

“If the Sovereign wishes it,” he said very seriously, and when she looked at him in disbelief he allowed his eyebrow to twitch.

She laughed. “Your friends have been a good influence on you.”

“In truth, I have much to thank my husband for. My sense of humor has been greatly sharpened by his wit.”

“You called him ‘Doctor?’ Do you still refer to each other by your titles?”

Spock hesitated. “We have done so for so long. Even as we dated we were still colleagues. It is difficult to break the habit.”

She nodded slowly, contemplative. “You should do away with it as quickly as possible, or the council will recognize your marriage as a sham.” She suddenly brightened. “Speaking of, hello Leonard.”

“Ma’am.”

Spock couldn’t seem to move. His heart pounded in his side, hectic with adrenaline, as McCoy delivered the water to his mother. She knew. She knew their marriage was one of convenience. How? How could she possibly know? He searched his mind for some hint of where he had gone wrong. Had he said something to implicate himself? Or perhaps when they had met, and she had held both of their hands…? After spending so long among Vulcans perhaps her weak psi ability had strengthened? Amanda herself would likely attribute it to a “mother’s instinct,” but Spock could not accept such an hypothesis.

He realized McCoy was looking at him expectantly and he jerked back to attention.

“I apologize,” he said, attempting to keep his voice level and smooth. “I was contemplating another matter.”

“Your mother says we should take a tour of the house. Are you coming?”

Spock did so. He did not wish to leave McCoy alone with her. They explored his childhood home, which Spock noted was curiously absent of servants. He thought it likely that his mother had dismissed them for the duration of their stay, to give them greater privacy. McCoy was impressed with the efficiency of the building’s design, or so he said, although he spoke in a rich drawl which may have meant he was teasing Spock. He seemed more interested in the large garden his mother maintained in the backyard.

After the tour his mother made them sit in the kitchen and tell her about their lives as she made peanut butter and _hirat khlup_ sandwiches. Spock had always logically preferred the meal in his youth. He attempted to ignore the feeling of nostalgia the meal engendered in him and instead listened closely to McCoy regaling his mother with the story of a Trill ambassador who had suffered a concussion and thought himself a Klingon. Amanda was laughing brightly by the end of the story and Spock felt warmth infuse him.

He watched her closely, but she did not give any sign to McCoy—Leonard—that she knew their marriage was a rouse. Leonard, he thought again, forcing himself to become comfortable with the name. It felt strange. He knew why he did not wish to call him by that name; it would only intensify his ever-growing feelings for his husband. It would do away with the last vestiges of distance between them. He had already lost focus and called him that several times, always in moments of emotional weakness. To accept him as _Leonard_ always and forever would be to accept feelings over which he had no authority, and which he could never hope to control.

He watched Leonard’s bright eyes gleaming with pride and happiness at having impressed Spock’s mother, and the warm feeling within him expanded. He sighed silently to himself.

He wondered if the feeling of love had a peak. If so, he hoped to reach it quickly. He could not withstand much more of this.


	9. Chapter 9

Spock had been unusually quiet throughout the day. Although he was often reserved, today he seemed deeply contemplative. Introspective. Perhaps he was already anticipating meeting the council of _hr’Mnah’te_ in only two days.

Amanda didn’t seem to mind. She was clearly ecstatic just to have Spock there, despite his mood. She had missed him, that much was clear even to McCoy.

McCoy kept her occupied with general chatter. He did his best to fill her in on Spock’s life in the years since she had last seen him. Their journey to Babel seemed like a lifetime ago, now. He could still remember the first time they had met, and their conspiratorial chatter during the reception. The chaos and tension that had resulted as the situation spiraled out of his control seemed more distant than Amanda’s twinkling smile as she teased her son.

It mattered little either way. His surgical intervention hadn’t been enough to save Sarek’s life. It had only prolonged it. He knew it wasn’t rational, but he still felt deeply responsible for Sarek’s death. He found himself contemplating the surgery, searching his memory for where he had gone wrong. Had he been too heavy handed? Had he made a mistake? If he had had more experience working with Vulcans perhaps he could have devised a permanent solution.

He looked at Spock, wondering. Would his husband require a surgery like that someday?

“Did he really say he _likes_ tribbles?” Amanda asked, faux-horrified, her voice as teasing as the smile she tried to hide behind her hand.

They were lounging in the garden beneath a low shrub with rusty red leaves. It was cool in the shade, and the _kaasa_ juice was perfectly refreshing. McCoy felt at ease for the first time in months.

He smiled back. “It was definitely something like that. Maybe he said he _loves_ them.”

Spock looked long-suffering. “I believe I stated that they had one redeeming quality. That is hardly an implication of emotional attachment.”

“Sure it isn’t, Spock,” McCoy teased. “Next you’ll be logically deducing that wings on a pig means they can fly!”

Amanda laughed, but Spock merely looked confused.

“He has always had a fondness for furry things,” Amanda said. “I’Chaya, of course, and my grandfather had a cat he used to try and teach tricks.”

“A most illogical creature. She clearly understood the meaning of my words, yet she refused to follow my commands.”

McCoy laughed at Spock’s frown. “That explains why you got so attached to those two cats we encountered. Well…” He glanced at Amanda. “One of them was a woman. Or was that both of them?”

“Improbable. One may have been a woman capable of shape-shifting her form, however that is unlikely. More likely it was a normal cat fitted with a holographic imager. The idea of a creature changing shape to that degree is not logical.”

“You are saying that about a _time-traveling_ cat, you realize.”

Spock ignored him. “The other merely assumed human form in our minds in an attempt to lull the captain into a false sense of security.”

“I remember that.” McCoy snapped his fingers. “Wasn’t there a skeleton?”

They went on like that, talking about their missions and misadventures. McCoy hadn’t realized there were so many of them until now. Lining them all up in a row made him realized that he and Spock had been through a lot together. Amanda was rapt and curious about everything, apparently hungry for information about her son’s life. McCoy wondered how often Spock actually spoke with her. Since moving in with Spock he hadn’t seen him call her even once, but Spock was a pretty secretive person.

Spock added a few details here and there, mostly refutations when he thought McCoy was misremembering or exaggerating, but after a while he seemed to grow tired. He rose and left McCoy and Amanda alone to talk.

McCoy watched him exploring the garden. “You raised an amazing son, Amanda.”

She smiled, but it was sad. She folded her gloved hands together on her lap and sat back to watch Spock as well. “I believe he turned out so well despite me rather than because of me.”

“You can’t think that!”

“He used to go for walks,” she said suddenly, apparently apropos of nothing. “He would disappear for days at a time. I would look up and he would be gone, out roaming the desert and the mountains. Sometimes with I’Chaya, but even after his sehlat’s death he would still wander off. I was always afraid that _this_ would be the last time. That whatever I’d said to him before he went out would be the last thing I’d ever get to tell him. Sometimes it would be banal: brush your teeth, a question about what he was reading. But sometimes it had been a word in anger or, what seemed worse for him, a word in happiness.”

McCoy studied her in the silence that fell. After a moment, he asked, “Why did he leave?”

“You know?” She shrugged. “I still don’t know. I used to ask, but he never gave me a straight answer and I hated making him lie to me. I stopped asking. I thought he might tell me if he really wanted me to know.” She looked out over the garden, her gaze calm and studious. “I suppose leaving for Starfleet was just an extension of that.”

He started to say something, already knowing that whatever response he came up with wouldn’t be adequate to the enormity of her loss, but Spock chose that moment to return. He was carrying a small bundle of hand-picked flowers.

“For the table tonight, Mother,” he said, handing her the majority of the bouquet. “And for you, Leonard.”

McCoy accepted the small blue flower—the only blue flower he’d seen on this dustbowl—with a gulp. He tucked it behind his ear beside the other one and held up his hand. They kissed, and McCoy wondered if it was his imagination that Spock was more hesitant than usual.

“Speaking of supper,” Amanda said, her sharp eyes trained on them, cool and calculation. “With the servants gone we should get started on it. Spock, how does _klitanta s'mun t'forati_ sound?”

“That will be acceptable, Mother.” He bowed his head and then helped her to rise with a hand on her elbow.

The kleet...klitan...the whatever, McCoy couldn’t even pronounce it in his own head, was some sort of fire-roasted vegetable in a rich, creamy sauce. But of course it couldn’t have been cream, as Vulcans had no cows. Amanda explained everything as she went along, but about half the words were in Vulcan, and McCoy had never been a very good cook to begin with—unless you counted his ability to follow his grandmother’s recipes. Still, he studied her closely and tried to remember how to make it. She confided in him that it was one of Spock’s favorite meals.

As they ate, McCoy told Amanda the story of the Roman planet they had encounter, which ended up being less funny and more heartfelt than he had intended. It didn’t help that Spock kept bringing up their conversation in the cell, which McCoy was trying to avoid. Just to get back at him McCoy twice mentioned his illogical questions in the ring, and Amanda hid her giggle behind one gloved hand, her eyes widening in concern as Spock blithely detailed the danger they had been in.

Amanda was clearly exhausted by the time their evening tea was finished. McCoy wasn’t feeling very bright-eyed, either. They bade her goodnight and went together to the guest room. Spock milled around in the meditation corner as McCoy unrolled the sleeping mat, already anticipating a backache tomorrow.

“It is logical to take additional precautions during our stay on Vulcan,” Spock said suddenly.

“Precautions?” McCoy looked up at him from where he was sitting on the sleeping mat. Spock looked very tall and imposing with his face cast in the shadow of the lantern. “Precautions for what?”

“For our...partnership. Sharing sleeping arrangements would be one such precaution. We may also wish to devise more.”

McCoy’s heart skipped a beat. He kept his face calm, expressionless, and reminded himself that Spock didn’t actually want to sleep with him. He was just doing the logical thing. “I think that’s fine, Spock,” he said evenly. “Just don’t kick me in your sleep.”

Spock looked inordinately relieved. “I will endeavor not to.”

McCoy’s heart was hammering in his chest as Spock turned down the kerosene lantern. He rolled over and faced away from Spock, just listening to him move around and get ready for bed. He could hear the soft _fwump_ of Spock’s robe hitting the floor, the gentle rustle of fabric as he pulled on his pajamas, and then the soft pad of his barefeet as he walked across the room. McCoy was nearly suffocating himself with his attempt to hold his breath and just _relax_ , dammit, by the time Spock slipped onto the mat beside him, warm and inviting and _real_ , and McCoy wanted nothing more than to just roll over and curl up into him, place his hands at Spock’s narrow waist and tug him close, rest his lips against Spock’s neck.

He jumped as Spock touched his shoulder.

“I apologize,” Spock whispered. “I did not intend to wake you. I—Good night, Leonard.”

 _Leonard_. He closed his eyes tightly, fingernails hurting his palms with how tightly he was holding his fists. “Good night, Spock.”

He could feel it overtaking him—that gentle calmness that always accompanied Spock. He hadn’t realized how exhausted he was, how out of reach sleep had seemed. Now it was easy enough to close his eyes. Almost in spite of himself he relaxed, breathed, and fell into…

The comm startled him awake and he felt Spock silently disentangling himself. His back was cold in the absence of his husband, and he closed his eyes again, knowing that he wouldn’t be sleeping at all tonight. Then, with a groan, he rolled over and got up to see what all the fuss was about.

*

His mother fussed over the fold in his robe, and he gently placed his hand atop hers to calm her. “All will be well, Mother. The council meeting has merely been rescheduled.”

“You can’t possibly think it’s a coincidence that they’re demanding you meet with them now!”

“No,” Spock agreed. “But worry will not resolve the issue. We must remain level-headed and emotionless throughout this experience.”

Her frown intensified, and her hand straightened the collar of his robe again seemingly without her noticing it. He allowed this. “Spock,” she whispered, glancing back towards the estate. “Are you sure you’re ready?”

Spock followed her gaze, frowning as well. In truth, he was not certain whether or not he and Leonard were fully ready to face the council and convince them of the validity of their relationship. Spock knew he had prepared Leonard to the best of his ability, but he was uncertain if his own ability could live up to the task of facing forty-seven deeply intelligent and suspicious politicians. He believed they were about to face trials he could not have anticipated.

Before he could formulate a response to his mother’s question, the decision to remain was stripped from him. The escort shuttle came hovering over the hill to land in the courtyard. A young Vulcan woman stepped from the carriage and opened the door for them.

He turned back and saw that his mother had already replaced her mourning mask. She couldn’t speak, couldn’t say the goodbyes that Spock was certain she wanted to make. He held up his hand in the ta’al and their gazes held. He nodded to her and thought he could see tears brimming in her eyes, but perhaps it was a trick of the light.

At that moment, Leonard stepped from the estate and stood at the top of the steps, the wind curling softly through his hair. His eyes glittered in the starlight. He descended towards them and accepted Spock’s kiss absentmindedly before turning to Amanda and pulling her into a hug. Spock watched her shoulders shaking as she wrapped her arms around Leonard’s neck.

They held each other and Spock looked away. He saw that their driver was also studiously avoiding the scene, although he suspected for different reasons. Spock could still hear Leonard whispering to his mother and he tried to ignore the sound, but the human could not pitch his voice low enough to escape a Vulcan’s hearing.

“I’ll make sure he calls, or at least writes,” Leonard whispered.

She nodded, stilted.

“And I’ll take care of him.”

Her grip on his shoulders tightened.

“...Take care of yourself, too, Amanda.”

They pulled apart and Spock could see that his mother was truly crying now. Her tears frayed the paper of her mask and she gave them one final, piercing look before disappearing into the estate.

Spock had the curious feeling of being alone for the first time in his life.

But no, he was not alone. Leonard was by his side interlacing their arms. Leonard supported him—perhaps unwittingly—as they boarded the shuttle and the driver shut the door behind them.

They rode in silence towards the capital. Spock found himself studying Leonard’s impassive features, recalling how his husband had laughed and smiled with his mother only a few hours before. Spock had never allowed himself to appreciate Leonard’s smile, although it was quite worthy of appreciation. His smile was always bright enough to warm Spock thoroughly, an innocent expression of happiness. Spock wondered how much smiling Leonard would be doing at the capital city—and, indeed, for the rest of his life.

He felt a stab of anguish at the thought. What had he done? He had acted selfishly and demanded that Leonard give up any chance at the life he so clearly wanted. Leonard would never be able to fall in love or find a partner who would support him in the way he deserved to be supported. He had been asked to give up his medicine before the end of their mission, which Spock had sworn he would not ask him to do. And now, he had been forced to give up everything and everyone they knew on the _Enterprise_ —all of his friends whom he had stood side-by-side with, fought with, laughed with. Spock had taken that from him.

Even if he had not been in love the realization would have hurt him. But Spock knew that he loved Leonard. He knew that he wanted him to be happy, even if he did not quite understand the connection humans had to the feeling. Looking at Leonard gazing out the viewport as the desert passed by beneath them, Spock wished he could take it all back.

Or, he thought, barring that: he wished that he could find what it would take to bring happiness to Leonard’s life.

Spock shared none of this with his husband. He kept silent, concerned that the driver would overhear them, until they crested Mount Seleya and the capital city filled the valley below.

Beside him, Leonard gasped.

“Leonard? Is all well?” he inquired.

Leonard shook his head. “I just wasn't expecting it to be so...imposing.”

Spock looked out the viewport and attempted to see the city through Leonard’s eyes. He knew the facts of it: it was large and densely populated, with more than thirty million _katras_ in one area. The city was also old, having sprung up around one of only three settlements which had survived the Restoration of Vulcan. But it seemed to instill an emotional reaction in Leonard; perhaps because of the great stone buildings, like sehlat’s teeth piercing the sky. Or perhaps it was the silence of it. Like a dead thing. Their shuttle had chased the darkness around the planet and they were still very much embedded in the night. It would be several hours before dawn.

“This is going to be our home,” Leonard whispered.

Spock looked to him, but he could not read Leonard’s reaction in the slightest. Leonard was closed to him. “Yes,” he said with finality. “Our home.”

They flew through the starlit city, darting down the deserted streets and through the quiet buildings until they reached the Hall of Law. It was the only non-natural source of light, save for the lights of their quiet shuttle. They landed in the quad amidst a small huddle of people that Spock immediately recognized as the council of lawmakers. T’pau was at the head, leaning heavily on her ceremonial staff, her eyes still as discerning and critical as ever.

Spock took a deep breath, and beside him he felt Leonard doing the same. Their shuttle shuddered and settled, and Spock knew he could no longer delay. He raised his hand and Leonard accepted the kiss. The pads of his fingers were dry and calloused, but his hands were steady as ever. He seemed utterly at ease. Leonard met his gaze and held it confidently, his blue eyes bright with apparent excitement. For a shameful moment, Spock contemplated breaking his promise. He wanted to sense the emotions of his husband, to draw strength from Leonard’s calm.

He did not. He dropped his hand, and together they stepped out into the light.

*

“What’s the logic in separating us unless you’re planning something?” McCoy asked, annoyed.

After landing and doing a little dance for the Vulcans (at least, that was what it had felt like), Spock had been drug off in one direction by the horde of diplomats and McCoy had been left alone with a quiet old woman. T’pol, she said her name was. Apparently she was the only Vulcan even willing to look at him, so McCoy figured that’s why they’d been stuck together.

She eyed him coolly, and he felt incredibly judged. “I do not have any plans beyond a tour of the compound. If you wish, I could attempt to cackle maniacally as we do so.”

Her joke momentarily stunned him. He recovered quickly enough, and grinned. Maybe this T’pol wasn’t as bad as he’d feared. “I haven’t had too much luck with laughing Vulcans. It looks a bit unnatural on you.”

She inclined her head. “Then I shall refrain.” He thought he caught a glint in her eyes that wasn’t unlike the little smile Spock occasionally had. “Please, follow me.”

He turned to grab his bag, but it was gone. He spotted a servant wearing one of those paper mourning masks standing in deference a yard behind him, bag in hand. McCoy frowned at her. “This is going to take some getting used to.”

T’pol lead him around the sharp angle of the quad in the opposite direction Spock and the others had gone. “You do not have servants on Earth?”

“Humans don’t really do that anymore. I suppose a Yeoman sometimes does things a servant would do, but the job description is much broader than that.”

She shook her head. “I do not mean a generalized ‘you.’ I mean _you_. You are not of noble blood?”

“Oh.” He shifted, uncomfortable. Spock hadn’t talked about this with him at all, so he wasn’t certain what to say. He figured it would be pretty easy for her to look up, anyway, so he couldn’t lie. “No, I’m not.”

“All the better,” T’pol said. “Although you should be aware that the rest of the council may also interrogate you regarding this subject, and it is unlikely they will be as accepting. Although our code of laws disallows the prohibition of a marriage due to a mismatch in status, that does not mean they will not try to use it as an intimidation tactic.”

He stared at her. He hadn’t expected to find an ally here, but T’pol seemed to be trying to give him honest advice. He was stunned. “Thank you.”

“Don’t mention it,” she said, sounding very serious.

They walked through a sweeping stone archway and into a cavernous room with vaulted ceilings nearly two dozen yards high. McCoy found himself straining his neck to look at the ceiling. He thought he could make out patterns in the paint and plaster, perhaps more of Spock’s “understated” art, but it was all the same color. Their steps echoed in the hallway, dancing down and then back and making McCoy’s ears ring.

“This is the hall of observation,” T’pol told him as she moved to stand by the enormous empty window. She adjusted her robes to fall around her feet. “Traditionally, the council would meditate here and look out over all of Vulcan before rendering final decisions. It was intended as a last contemplation before creating laws which may have unforeseen consequences.”

McCoy looked out the window at the silent city. The buildings just looked like shadows to him, and he shivered as he remembered the feeling he had gotten in the shuttle. He felt like he was looking at a dead thing. “That sounds like a good tradition.”

“‘Good’ implies a judgment of value, or perhaps emotion. It was one important, logical step in creating fair and just laws for many centuries. Unfortunately, the tradition itself is no longer followed.” She turned abruptly and McCoy hastened to catch up.

Most of the compound was deserted, but occasionally McCoy spotted servants and staff moving about. He assumed they were getting everything ready for a hard day of law-making, or maybe they were just making breakfast. He knew that the entirety of the council lived here full time, except when an issue required their attention on their family’s land. He hadn’t thought to count how many Vulcans had greeted them, but he thought that all forty-seven of them were here.

She showed him the hall of feasting (and that’s how everything was named, “the hall of whatever,” which McCoy thought was rather pompous and unnecessary). The hall stood empty. Most of the council took their meals alone or in small groups in their state-issued quarters. There were abundant meeting rooms and many wide-open spaces where cacti and other plants grew. None of them, he thought, were as lovely as the garden Amanda had maintained. But most of the rooms were empty. They walked for long stretches of time without seeing anyone.

T’pol was explaining another tradition, long-since abandoned as an illogical waste of time, of holding open meetings where any citizen could approach the council and be heard, when McCoy suddenly got dizzy. He felt a jarring, sharp pain in his head and as he raised his hand to his forehead he realized he was _angry_. Not just angry, _furious_. Absolutely, irrationally upset. He gasped at the sensation.

“Are you well?” T’pol asked him flatly.

Her lack of emotion only enraged him further. He gritted his teeth and tried to push through it. Why was he so upset? It was...illogical. “I’m fine,” he spat out. He dropped his hand and curled it into a fist by his side. He caught her looking at it. “This...presentation hall—”

“Hall of Troubles.”

“Whatever,” he growled. “How could the council just abandon its people? Why doesn’t anyone complain that they aren’t heard?”

She studied him. “The split happened over five centuries ago. None are still alive who remember it.”

“That doesn’t make it right!” McCoy could no longer keep still. He began pacing around the room, gesticulating wildly at the expansive emptiness of it all. There was so much room and they weren’t doing _anything_ with it! “This whole damn place has been redesigned for isolation! I bet there isn’t a Vulcan here who has any idea what the people actually _want_.”

“Do you?”

That stopped him short. He felt his anger leaving him in a rush and he shuddered, again feeling dizzy. He tried to keep his balance. “No,” he admitted. “Not yet.”

She came closer to him and reached out, resting her hand on his arm. He stared at it, surprised. He’d never known Vulcans to be particularly touchy-feely. But the simple gesture calmed him, and he let out a deep breath he hadn’t realized he’d been holding. “I understand now why Spock has chosen you to be his partner. However, I urge you not to be hasty in your actions. Vulcan is not a democracy as you understand the term. It is not logical, but it is true. If you make your views too well known before your marriage is finalized, you may find the council will invent any excuse to deny it.”

“You’re right,” McCoy said quietly. “I’m sorry, I don’t know what came over me. I’m not sure why it got me so riled up.”

She looked at him kindly. “It is late, and you are no doubt still growing comfortable with your marriage. Come, I will show you to your chambers so that you may rest. We can continue the tour another time.”

McCoy wasn’t sure what the marriage had to do with him getting angry, but he still followed her dutifully. At the door, she gave him the ta’al and bade him goodnight. McCoy waved to her awkwardly, still cursing his inability to salute correctly, and then took a look around. The chambers he and Spock would be sharing were stately, and far nicer than any he had seen during their tour. There were a half-dozen rooms splitting off from the main foyer. In the foyer he could barely see the ground, there were so many pillows and cushions scattered around. One room was entirely books, all of which were made of paper—or what passed for paper on Vulcan—and written in ancient Vulcan calligraphy. Another room appeared to be an office already set up for them. In the third he found the bathroom, complete with an actual _bath_ inset in the floor. McCoy was surprised to find it, knowing that water was a precious commodity on Vulcan. In the fourth room, he found Spock.

Spock was kneeling by the low table and unpacking their belongings with stiff, stilted movements. He looked up as McCoy arrived, a small frown on his face. “Doctor,” he said, and then seemed to wince.

McCoy frowned at him, too. “Spock. Where did they take you?”

“It is none of your concern,” he said shortly, and then paused. He frowned at the garment he was holding. “Or rather, it is. The council introduced me to potential mates under the false pretense of meeting those we would be working with during our time here.”

“Oh, Spock,” McCoy sighed, feeling Spock’s disapproval as if it were his own. He decided to give up the rest of his tour of their quarters, instead coming in and shutting the door. “How do you feel about that?”

Spock looked at him sharply. “I feel nothing.”

McCoy rolled his eyes and went to sit beside Spock. “I _meant_ ,” he said, “If you thought this was going to be a problem?”

Spock nodded slowly and went back to folding clothes. “What they did was not only rude, it also demonstrates that they do not consider our marriage to be official—they do not even recognize it as a courtship. Of course, they would deny the obvious motivation to their actions and claim that they had no intention of insulting you.”

“Spock, no offense but you Vulcans can sure be petty. I can’t believe the whole council got together and decided to try and set you up.”

“No offense is received,” Spock said. He seemed calmer now, and more contemplative. “We are often petty, yet I do not believe the entirety of the council was in agreement. T’pau certainly did not approve of the attempt.”

“What makes you say that?”

“She remained by my side throughout, and twice called Vosat and T'lan illogical.”

McCoy laughed. “That’s a pretty big insult. Weren’t you telling me Vosat tried to do that Kolinahr thing and failed?”

“Twice,” Spock said, eyes lit with a secret smile. “His children were quite embarrassed, and perhaps wished he were successful so that they no longer had to interact with him. Thankfully for him, and unfortunately for us, his circumstances of birth guarantee him a place on the council for as long as he keeps failing to complete the ritual.”

“After that he’s above society?” McCoy hazarded. He was testing his own knowledge, and was pleased when Spock nodded. McCoy yawned and leaned back against the low table, propping himself up on his elbows. “Well, T’pol at least was nice.”

Spock frowned as if thinking. “I have not met her. Her family was recently inducted into the council alongside Simora and his family. I believe upon T’pau’s recommendation.”

“I think she’s on our side.” McCoy rested his head in the pillow of his arms, smiling to himself as he watched Spock fold the clothes. It was kind of nice to just talk like this. He had thought he would be more nervous once they started interacting directly with the council, but he wasn’t at all. Something about Spock’s calm serenity relaxed him as well. “Did any good come from your meeting with the council?”

“I have discovered a way for you to satiate your need to indulge in humanitarian efforts.”

“You mean ‘Vulcatarian’ efforts?” he asked, smirking.

Spock’s lips did a funny little thing at the corner. “Yes. The council has created a special committee which discusses the dispersal of social aid. Given your background, I was able to convince T'lan to allow you to serve on the committee.” Spock stopped folding and looked down at McCoy. His lips looked soft and inviting in the flickering yellow light of the lantern.

McCoy found himself caught in Spock’s gaze. He realized he was sitting very close to Spock. Indeed, that he could feel Spock’s warmth through the pressure of their legs pressed together. Spock looked at ease, yet mysterious and distant, his dark eyes hooded in contemplation. His hair looked so soft, and there was a little curl of it that was out of place. McCoy contemplated smoothing that loose strand, running his fingers through Spock’s hair and pulling him into a kiss. It would be exploratory, just enough to feel the softness of Spock’s lips, to taste the hidden smile they held. It would have been so easy to kiss him, in that gentle moment.

Instead, McCoy stood quickly. “I should get some sleep.”

“Yes.” Spock turned back to his unpacking.

McCoy hesitated. “Will you join me?”

Spock paused, and then, “Yes, when I am finished here.”

McCoy changed into his night clothes and crawled onto the sleeping mat. For all the lavish accommodations, the mat was still just a thin slip of fabric between him and the cold stone floor. He tried to get settled and comfortable, but he was still tossing and turning when Spock blew out the lantern and slipped under the blanket beside him, solid and real, and McCoy felt his heart pounding in his chest. Spock let out a small sigh. McCoy closed his eyes.

He fell asleep between one breath and the next.


	10. Chapter 10

McCoy told himself to just breathe normally and get through it.

He gritted his teeth, already furious. Yeah, that wasn’t going to happen.

Spock had dropped him off at the social aid committee with a stack of datapadds and about a hundred instructions not to do anything dramatic, no really, Leonard _please_ it’s your first day, just be normal, and things had just gone downhill from there.

The committee was him and three other Vulcans—T'lan, whom Spock had mentioned; T’oval, who had introduced herself as “daughter of Soval” and made McCoy panic for a moment, thinking he’d forgotten something important, before he remembered that was the name of a minor ambassador from about a hundred years ago; and Simora who didn’t really say much at all and did a good impression of a wallflower. They’d made it clear that McCoy was here in an advisory capacity only, and that he wouldn’t get a vote no matter how much he cried (he’d even suggested that, and T'lan had looked horrified).

They’d started small. A school in Ara'Kahr making a request for funds to start a science program for particularly gifted students. T'lan and T’oval had approved immediately and Simora had meekly agreed a moment later.

But then things got complicated when another school in Pi'kahr—at least that’s what he’d thought they’d said—wanted assistance building up their program for struggling readers. McCoy had thought the motion would pass just as easily as the first, but instead they’d debated for nearly an hour about whether it would benefit a sufficient number of people, if the existing program was sufficient, and where the aid would come from before shelving the discussion for another time.

McCoy was annoyed by the end of it, but he still didn’t say anything. Spock’s instructions were still fresh in his mind. He couldn’t make waves. He just had to sit back and listen, and then as soon as he and Spock were finalized he could do whatever he needed to do. He just had to wait and keep his nerves calm and his mouth shut.

Unfortunately for his nerves, the very next thing they talked about was the program for orphaned children.

McCoy didn’t even know Vulcans _had_ orphans. It just didn’t fit with his view of them. But apparently they did, about a hundred of them. He thought they might have come from a death in the family, but no, they all came from parents who went through the Kolinahr. After they did so, they severed all ties with family and friends and were praised far and wide on Vulcan. But they also gave up any connection to their children, and their children were considered no longer citizens unless they were adopted.

“How is it that a race as advanced as you claim to be still does nothing for orphaned children?”

T'lan barely looked at him. “You are mistaken, McCoy. We provide for the orphans food, clothing, and shelter. They are also educated as is befitting their intelligence.”

“Befitting their intelligence!” He waved the datapadd around. “That’s apparently code for ‘not educated at all!’ Half of these children aren’t even literate! The Federation Code of Justice specifically names literacy as a basic right of all sentient beings. Hell, your own _Vulcan_ Bill of Rights was a basis for this code, and it also names literacy as a fundamental right of all Vulcans!” He was flushed with excitement at having remembered all that.

“Certainly,” she responded coolly, apparently unmoved by his argument. “It is unfortunate that these children remain illiterate, but as they are not citizens of Vulcan we are already over-extending ourselves by rendering what aid we do. Certainly you would not expect us to attend to citizens of Romulus simply because of the myth that they share with us a common ancestor.” She turned back to address the committee. “It is for precisely this reason that we must recommend the council reduce the amount of spending which goes towards these funds. It is necessary for us to disinvest spending in areas which do not return an equal or greater value.”

McCoy’s voice ran cold. “You shut your mouth.”

She looked at him incredulously. “I beg your pardon?”

“I’m telling you to stop talking! And stop bringing up false equivalencies. This proposal is unacceptable. What kind of logic is there in giving up on your people just because their parents went through some ritual?”

T’oval frowned at him. “It is a requirement of the Kolinahr to divest from worldly ties to emotion. It is unfortunate that these children lose their citizenship status as a result, but nevertheless that is the law.”

“You make the laws!” T’oval looked surprised at his words, as if she had never considered that before. “Where does this loss of citizenship law even come from?”

T'lan arched one sharp eyebrow. “It is an ancient tradition. Since the time of Surak his teachings have been interpreted by the law makers, and we have determined the course of action that best encourages our people to pursue logic. The entirety of our race benefits from laws such as these.”

“You can’t weigh an imagined benefit to logic against the rights of an entire group of people,” McCoy insisted. He felt dizzy, and sick. He realized suddenly that, for as much as he and Spock had spent their days arguing, they really agreed on pretty much everything. He couldn’t imagine Spock _ever_ trying to defend T'lan’s stance.

“Indeed, these can be weighed. The equation is relatively simple, for a Vulcan, but as you are human—”

“Esteemed T'lan, perhaps Dr. McCoy is correct.”

Everyone swiveled to look at Simora. McCoy had actually forgotten what the man sounded like. He had spoken so little during the meeting.

Simora was staring intently at the table, his face utterly blank. “We should consider recommending an increase in aid.”

T'lan’s face went flat as well. “We cannot provide aid for everyone. Our resources are not infinite. Some balance must be achieved. Do you have a logical reason for an increase?”

Simora hesitated, looking mildly terrified now. McCoy jumped in to support his unlikely ally. “Vulcan has a long and honored tradition of supporting non-citizens who require it. It was—” he searched his memory, “2068, I believe, that Vulcan established the Library for the Education of Other Worlds.”

“2086,” Simora corrected kindly. “McCoy is correct. The tradition is there.”

“That Library was dismantled approximately fifty years ago.” T'lan sniffed. “Even if it were not, tradition is not sufficient enough reason to indulge in a given activity.”

“Did not the esteemed T'lan only recently cite tradition as suitable reason to maintain the very laws around citizenship that have lead to this unfortunate situation for some of our Vulcan children?” Simora looked utterly innocent.

McCoy tried not to grin. Even T’oval was looking at T'lan now, curious. T'lan pursed her lips, scanning the three of them as if she might find a weakness, some crack in their armor. McCoy knew that he, for one, wasn’t going to budge on the issue.

“Very well,” she said. “Simora, given your obvious interest in this issue I will allow you to confer with McCoy privately. The two of you may present an amended proposal at our next committee meeting.”

Holy shit. Had he just won something? McCoy looked at Simora, who had gone back to staring at the table. McCoy wanted to ask him what, exactly, was going on here, but they were already moving onto the next issue on the agenda.

A hospital was requesting aid. McCoy took a deep breath and got ready for another fight.

*

Spock kept his hands folded in front of him, hiding his fidgeting hands in the long sleeves of his robe. His head spun with facts and information as he waited for Leonard to finish with his meeting. Spock logically sorted all the information he had been given during his briefing with the council on the requirements for his upcoming nuptials. He felt ill.

Finally—nearly two hours after the committee meeting had been scheduled to end—the door open. A middle-aged man stepped out. Simora. Spock recognized him now. He was from the new family which had been inducted alongside T’pol, in order to keep an odd number of council people. Simora caught sight of him and hesitated before walking across the large room.

“Sovereign Spock,” he said, bowing his head.

Spock returned the bow. “Esteemed Simora.”

Simora glanced back at the open door of the meeting room. Spock could hear ongoing conversation, and he winced as he realized that Leonard was arguing with someone inside. “Your husband is quite...emotional.”

Spock felt utterly defeated. “Yes,” he agreed, sighing.

Simora looked at him, eyes wide. “I meant no offence. I found his contributions to the discussion to be meaningful and nuanced. I—” He hesitated as if searching for the right words, and then leaned into whisper furtively. “Would you please encourage him to attend more committee meetings?”

Spock blinked, surprised. “I will do what I can.”

“I am also on the committee for xenorelations. There is an ongoing debate on Andorian-Vulcan affairs in which he may be interested.” Simora bowed again and then presented the ta’al. “I will take my leave of you. Long life to you and your husband, Spock.”

“Peace, Simora.” Spock returned the gesture, considering Simora’s words as the other man walked away. It was unusual to mention family while giving the ta’al, and the fact that Simora had made a point to do so was encouraging to Spock. It meant there was at least one council member who supported their relationship.

He looked back at the meeting room, suppressing the joy that threatened his controls. Leonard had made a good impression.

Leonard finally stepped out of the room, still engaged in an animated discussion with T’oval. Behind them, T'lan glared at the back of Leonard’s head. Spock winced. In the world of politics, for every good impression there had to be a corresponding bad one.

“Husband.” Spock stepped forward and presented his hand.

“There you are,” Leonard groused at him, returning the kiss absently. Spock sighed, knowing that no amount of instruction would break Leonard of his lack of etiquette. “Tell T’oval about that planet we found that had that disease that worked a bit like Bendii Syndrome.”

“McCoy has been informing us of your many discoveries,” T’oval said, looking excited. She was young, Spock reminded himself. He hoped she retained her enthusiasm despite the rigors of politics. “I believe we may benefit from opening a free exchange of information with Starfleet.”

“We should not do so lightly,” T'lan cut in. “That is a matter for the council as a whole to consider.”

“Yes, T'lan, but surely we could present a proposal—”

“Know your place,” T'lan said curtly. “Or has the council made an error in assigning you to this important committee?”

T’oval’s face fell into stoicism. “No, Esteemed.”

Spock could see that McCoy was about to start tearing into T'lan, and so he positioned himself in between them. “Esteemed T’oval, a conversation with you would be welcome. I am afraid it must wait for another time. At this moment I must confer with my husband.”

“Of course.” She inclined her head.

They said their goodbyes and Spock waited for them to leave before taking Leonard by the arm and propelling him down the hall.

“Oof—Spock, what’s the matter?” Leonard struggled to keep up.

“We have been given an ultimatum,” Spock hissed. “I will not discuss it here.”

Leonard kept quiet until they reached their quarters. Spock had already scanned for listening devices and found nothing, so he knelt on a cushion and rested his hands on his knees, thinking. Leonard plopped down on a cushion near him.

“So what’s the problem?”

“Do you sing? Play any instrument?”

Leonard jerked in surprise at the question. “Er, I haven’t in awhile. I can carry a tune alright, I think, and I used to play guitar and a bit of fiddle.”

Spock didn’t know what a “fiddle” was, but the response was not promising. “The council has announced their intention to insist we follow _dahek ho-rah koon-ut so'lik_.”

Leonard’s eyes went glassy. “All I got out of that was the number two.”

Spock sighed. “It is an ancient ritual marriage proposal that was only practiced by the ruling class. In those times, all betrothals and challenges were made publically before the people. The ritual requires us to play a duet which will impress the people and confirm our suitedness as partners. It was intended to test how well the pair works together and to determine the potential success of the marriage.” He frowned. “It has not been required in over thirty generations.”

“They would pull some absurd ritual out of the mothballs.” Leonard sighed and flopped back on the cushion, throwing his arm over his eyes. “How long do we have to get ready?”

“Two weeks. I must propose to you then, publicly, immediately following a successful duet which we have created, or the council will consider our courtship inauthentic.”

Leonard stayed still a moment. Spock studied his tense form. He thought that Leonard was looking thin again, perhaps as a result of the increased stress in his life over the past weeks. He wondered if Leonard had eaten anything during the prolonged committee meeting.

“Okay,” Leonard said eventually, sitting up and looking at Spock. His blue eyes were fierce with determination, and the force of his gaze galvanized Spock as well. “This should be fine. I don’t think the council would appreciate a fiddle, so let’s stick to singing. I’ve heard you do covers on the fly before, so we should be able to figure out a duet between me and your lyre.”

“The notes you are accustomed to follow a slightly different scale, but it is possible.” Spock realized he was suddenly on the verge of smiling. The shock of the realization was enough to suppress the gesture, and he filed the emotion away for contemplation later. “For now, have you eaten?”

Leonard rolled his eyes and fell back on the cushion. “I thought you were over this!”

Spock leaned over, propping himself up by one arm. He stared down at Leonard. “It is my responsibility to attend to your health. You have grown thin again.”

“I have not,” Leonard groused, frowning up at him.

“Evidence suggests otherwise.” He reached out and touched the fabric of Leonard’s shirt, skating over the shape of his ribs.

Leonard’s breath froze in his chest. He looked up at Spock with incredulity, eyes confused. “Spock?” His voice was so soft and imploring, and for a moment Spock deluded himself into believe that Leonard wanted them to kiss.

No. It could not be. It was his own irrational feelings which were causing him to believe such a thing. Realizing what he had done, Spock internally scolded himself for his lapse in control. He removed his hand and turned away. “If you are hungry you should eat. We have several hours before the reception.”

Leonard made an odd sound. “Reception?”

“Were you not informed?” Spock frowned. Of course T'lan would not have told him. She wanted their courtship to fail. “The council will be in attendance, ostensibly to wish us well in our future endeavors. I believe the true motivation is to find a weakness in our partnership.”

“They’ll have a tough time of it.” Leonard grunted and rose. “Well then, we’d better get dressed and go over those dance steps again. I think I’ve mostly got them down, but I always forget if the half-turn comes before the ritual flogging or after.”

Spock did not acknowledge Leonard’s joke, although he was dismayed to realize that he found Leonard’s opposition to Vulcan rituals to be…cute. “And you will eat something.”

Even from behind Spock could tell Leonard was rolling his eyes. “Fine, I’ll eat a sandwich or something! Now come on and help me pick out something nice to wear.”

Spock rose and folded his hands together, following Leonard from the room. He already had something in mind: a soft robe the color of _pla-kor khush_ which would undoubtedly accentuate Leonard’s beautiful eyes.

*

McCoy had been worried that the blue robe with its high collar and intricate gold Vulcan calligraphy would be itchy, but it was surprisingly soft. He kept petting the sleeves absent-mindedly, enjoying the feel of it. It wasn’t too warm, either, which was a God-send in a room stuffed full of hot-headed Vulcans.

He stood pressed against the far wall, absorbing the coolness from the rock and sipping what was possibly the only iced drink on the planet. The servant had looked panicked when McCoy had turned down his first offer of hot tea, but the mask had prevented him from questioning McCoy. The masks were damned illogical, and it didn’t escape McCoy’s notice that the ruling class had made sure they didn’t have to honor that tradition—save for the spouse of the deceased. It was an old tradition, but it didn’t seem like they’d be changing it anytime soon.

This iced water was pretty good, though, and was doing wonders for the flush of jealousy that threatened as he watched Spock dance with everyone in the room.

Spock looked so good in his long, textured robe. It emphasized his height and narrow frame, and the deep jade color made his skin glow. His face was somber as he danced the traditional steps, his body a careful distance from each of his partners. It was tradition, McCoy knew, but it was still frustrating. Especially when Spock so clearly did not want to do it. McCoy wished they could just dance together. He wouldn’t be a jerk and test Spock’s skills like these Vulcans were doing. McCoy could tell that they thought Spock had gotten soft from his long exposure to humans.

“Your partner has danced twice as often with T’oval as with any other Vulcan present. What negative feelings does that inspire in you?”

McCoy jumped and turned to frown at the tall, broad-shouldered Vulcan addressing him. “Excuse me?”

The Vulcan arched one brow. “Was my question unclear? I understand that humans often engage in ‘small talk’ during events such as this.”

McCoy blinked. “I suppose we do. That’s an unusual question, though. I don’t really feel any way about it. T’oval and Spock have only danced twice.”

The Vulcan nodded. “I see. I apologize, it was my understanding that humans are prone to fits of unmitigated jealousy.”

“Who told you that?” When he didn’t answer, McCoy went on, “No more than any other race, I think. I’ve seen my share of jealous Vulcans as well.”

He frowned slightly, like he hadn’t expected McCoy to say that. “Then you would not demand that your partner never speak to her again?”

“No? Why would I do that?” McCoy was honestly confused now, but he assumed this Vulcan was just unpracticed at speaking to aliens. “Here, let’s start over. Usually at the beginning of a conversation with a human we introduce ourselves. I’m Leonard McCoy.”

“I am aware.”

McCoy waited a beat. “...And your name is?”

“Nirak.”

McCoy raised his brow. “That’s an unusual name.”

“Your use of ‘unusual’ does not correspond to an accepted unit of measure.” Nirak went on before McCoy could say anything, “I understand ‘small talk’ also involves the contemplation of hypotheticals?”

“Sure.” McCoy looked out over the reception, hoping Spock would come rescue him. But he couldn’t even see Spock in the crowd of people, so he gave up on that hope.

“Consider the following: your partner has a close friend with whom he spends a great deal of time. You realize that they have formed a bond which is different from the bond you share with your partner, and is one which you cannot hope to match in intensity and type. What feelings do you have in relation to this?”

McCoy laughed because that sounded like Spock and Jim, and then he frowned because, oh, that sounded like Spock and Jim. “That’s a strange hypothetical.”

“Ah, jealousy then?”

“I didn’t say that. It was just funny, because I think Spock has a few friendships like that. Every friendship is different, and I can’t expect to fulfill all roles in his life. As long as he’s happy, so am I.” He realized with some surprise that was actually true. There was no way he could be jealous of his two best friends.

“Hm.” Nirak’s frown deepened. “I have additional hypotheticals.”

“Look, Nirak, what about a little give-and-take? Small talk is about free exchange. Are you here with someone?” McCoy tried.

“I am currently with you. Consider: you have begun discussing a topic with your partner which is close to you. You have invested great emotion into the topic, yet your partner continues to criticize the topic. How do you react?”

Ouch, that one hurt. It hit a bit too close to home. He thought about being trapped in a Roman jail, still festering from the wound Spock had inflicted when he’d mocked McCoy’s medical practice. He decided not to tell Nirak that he would react by pinning Spock against the wall—although, maybe it would give Nirak a nice shock. “I’ve never been the best at accepting criticism,” he admitted diplomatically. “Is this going somewhere?”

“You would not discuss your frustrations with your partner?”

“I probably would,” McCoy said, deciding to accept a certain definition of “discuss.”

“What about erotic preferences and sexual fantasies. Do you feel comfortable discussing those?”

McCoy bristled with embarrassment and annoyance. Suddenly his cool robe felt way too hot. “Just wait a damn minute! Who do you think—”

“Leonard?”

McCoy turned, elated, and met Spock’s fingers with his. “Spock. Are you done dancing?” he asked hopefully.

“Very nearly.” Spock slid his gaze over to Nirak. “You are bothering my husband,” he said with utter conviction.

“We were merely engaging in conversation.” Nirak bowed his head. “Forgiveness, Sovereign. It is merely that I am interested in cultural differences among aliens.”

“You would do well to keep decorum in mind when investigating cultural differences.”

McCoy tamped down a grin at Spock’s icy tone. He thought of saying something to diffuse the tension, but he kind of liked being rescued by Spock.

“Of course,” Nirak said smoothly. His gaze flickered to the smile on McCoy’s lips, and then back to Spock. “Perhaps you could aid me, then, in investigating an aspect of human culture which has piqued my interest?”

McCoy could see that Spock was warring internally, debating whether to tell Nirak to buzz of or accede to politeness. In a room filled with watchful Vulcans, politeness won out.

“I will aid you if I am able.”

“I am curious to see a human kiss.”

McCoy’s blood ran cold. Beside him, Spock shifted, minutely, although McCoy knew Nirak had seen it. McCoy tried to school his features into something less panicked. “Now where do you get off asking us to do something like that?”

“Get off?” Nirak looked honestly confused for the first time.

“That is a private matter,” Spock said smoothly.

Nirak looked unimpressed. “I see. If you are unable to touch your husband…”

McCoy suddenly realized what was going on. He cursed himself for his own stupidity in letting Nirak hoodwink him. He’d known something was wrong with their conversation, but this confirmed it: Nirak had laid a neat little trap for them, and they’d blundered into it. Either refuse to kiss Spock and Nirak would report back to Vulcans salivating over the chance to reveal their marriage was a shame. Or, kiss Spock for the first time and risk doing a terrible job at it and Nirak would report the same damned thing anyway.

Had Spock ever kissed _anyone_? No, McCoy was pretty sure he had—that girl on the planet with the euphoria-inducing flowers. They had kissed, hadn’t they? What had it been like for Spock to kiss someone under the haze of intoxication? Had he enjoyed it? Did Spock ever really enjoy anything?

“Leonard.”

McCoy turned to Spock. He felt like he was moving through water. Everything was liquid and slow as Spock lifted one hand, a soft white flower clutched between his fingertips. Spock’s palm came to rest against McCoy’s cheek and McCoy was struck by the intensity of scent. The smell of cream and spice, hot and sweet to the point of making McCoy’s mouth water, and he realized he was panicking.

Spock pulled so gently that not even the flower felt it, and then they were together. Spock’s lips were paper dry, fitting against McCoy the way a vine fits into a groove so that it may grow towards the sun.

Then Spock was gone, and McCoy was left wobbling and suffocating at the absence of him.

Spock arched one brow at Nirak, who didn’t even have the grace to look offended. He just inclined his head and turned, his robe swirling around his ankles as he walked off.

“Spock...” McCoy didn’t know what to say.

“I apologize,” Spock said lowly, his voice sounding like gravel. He stared at the floor. “We had agreed never to engage in such a public display, but the situation…”

“I know,” McCoy said.

Spock still didn’t look at him as he held out the flower once more. “This is for you.”

McCoy looked down at his offering, and his heart clenched in his chest. “Where did you even get this?”

“It required...innovation.” Spock moved forward to carefully tuck the small white flower into a pocket in McCoy’s robe that he hadn’t even realized was there. “I apologize for leaving you alone. It is only…” He hesitated, a small frown on his lips. “I was suddenly struck with the realization that I had not gifted you a flower in more than a day and I...thought you may appreciate it.”

“I do.” He ran his finger over the soft, delicate petal. Another burst of scent was released by his touch, and his heart skipped a beat at the sense-memory of Spock’s lips against his. “You still have some dancing to do?”

“I do,” Spock agreed, and his mouth curled in at the corner ever so slightly. He presented his hand to McCoy, twin fingers outstretched. “With you.”

“Spock, I…” He looked around the room and saw that everyone was studiously not looking at them. “Are you sure? We aren’t required to dance tonight.”

“But I wish it.”

“What if I get the steps wrong?”

“We went over them this afternoon. And, regardless, your natural grace will cover any potential mistake.”

McCoy flushed, surprised at the compliment. “You looked good out there,” he muttered. “Very, uh, practiced.”

“Thank you. Now, will you join me?”

McCoy realized he’d left Spock hanging a bit too long and he quickly raised his hand. Their fingers met and he could feel the heat from Spock’s hand. He met Spock’s eyes and saw warmth and tenderness there—all an affectation, he knew, and the thought pained him. He had the sudden urge to ask Spock to drop his guard, to let him in. For a frantic second he didn’t want to hide anymore.

He took a deep breath and scolded himself. He barely got a grip on himself in time to set down his melted water as he followed Spock onto the floor.

The music which filled the room wavered, and then a soft humming sound began, the low thrum of a stringed instrument. Spock’s gaze did not break. His fingers remained outstretched as he swayed with the music, touching McCoy here and there on his shoulder, the length of his forearm, the back of his hand. It was risque and McCoy flushed with embarrassment at the public display, knowing that all eyes were on them.

The music picked up.

McCoy spun with him, feet falling into step without conscious thought, too busy getting lost in Spock’s eyes to worry about tripping. Spock kept up those little finger kisses whenever the dance drew them close enough, each one igniting sparks of desire under McCoy’s skin. He wanted this to be _real_.

He knew, now, what that would be like. What it would be like to have Spock free to kiss him with every fibre of his being, every inch of his body.

He gulped and nearly stumbled, but they had practiced this dance so many times that he caught himself. But their practice had never been like this: in public. Where anyone could look into McCoy’s eyes and see what he felt. Where they would know his desire to pull Spock close and dance with him the dance of an awkward teenager at prom. Curl around Spock and rest his head on Spock’s shoulder, feel Spock’s long hands on his back, the breath in Spock’s chest. He wanted that and he knew that anyone looking at him would see his desire clearly.

He told himself that was a good thing. It would keep up the facade.

McCoy spun to a stop, heels clicking against the ground, as the music wound down. He dropped his gaze and took a deep, shaky breath. Spock stepped forward and kissed him again on his wrist, trailing down to the more ritual touch.

He looked back up and he thought—just for a moment he was _certain_ he saw it there, in  Spock’s brown eyes, a mirror to his own...but no, it couldn’t be true.

“It is late,” Spock whispered. “And I believe we have been enough of a spectacle for one night.”

McCoy looked around and saw a roomful of Vulcans barely suppressing their surprise. He chuckled nervously.

They left respectfully, but quickly. McCoy was hot on Spock’s heels, and he had the sudden, irrational thought that they were going back to their quarters to be _alone_. He desired Spock so strongly, and he was so certain that Spock desired him, that he knew the moment they were alone Spock would turn to him and kiss him again, but _more_. With steady, exploratory touches, the gentle brush of his soft lips. He could picture so clearly himself, Spock’s hands on him, laying him out in the sea of cushions and peeling open his robe, murmuring, “ _This color, Ashayam. How can I resist your eyes?”_

The door shut behind them with a decisive _click_.

A wave of dizziness struck him and he thought, _have I been thinking in Vulcan_? He pressed his hand against his forehead to steady himself and took a few fortifying breaths.

Spock stood a few feet away, not looking at him. McCoy had the irrational urge to tell him of his fantasy—hell, to pull him into a kiss himself. But he bit down on the words.

“I believe our display will convince more of the council to believe our story.”

McCoy sighed. He felt suddenly exhausted. He just wanted to lay down. “Anything to keep up the lies,” he said sarcastically.

Spock turned and looked at him, surprise clearly written on his face. “Leonard, I merely meant—”

“I know what you meant.” He waved away Spock’s words. “I’m just tired, Spock. I’m going to bed.”

Spock nodded slowly. “I must meditate first.”

McCoy waved at him again and went and got ready, irrationally upset that Spock wasn’t joining him right away. Didn’t he know that he couldn’t sleep without Spock at his side?

He frowned at his pajama top, blinking away the unexpected tears that threatened to spill. No, of course Spock didn’t know. Spock didn’t know his feelings at all, and he could never tell him. It would be not just unfair, but also cruel, to force Spock to put up with that for the rest of his life. Spock didn’t want his love. Spock would probably be disturbed to find out McCoy loved him. No, it was better to never tell Spock any of this.

He tried one of the meditation techniques Spock had taught him, and he was still working through the first step in emotional suppression when his husband crawled under the blanket with him and he fell into an angry, fitful sleep.

*

It was Zebed, who changed the Prince’s bedding each morning, who noticed it first. There was wetness on the pillow case. Although Zebed had never seen anyone cry, he recognized them as tears.

He made note of the phenomena, and resolved to ask the other servants to watch for other strange happenings.


	11. Chapter 11

The day came that the servants roaming the halls no longer wore their paper mourning masks, and Spock abruptly realized that his father was dead.

He felt as if he had been struck by the lightning of a sandfire storm. He nearly lost his control right then and there in front of the great hall and twenty witnesses, but he managed to restrain himself. He snatched back control and remained cool and poised for the rest of the meeting, and then he went back to their quarters and into the office to call his mother.

She answered the comm, looking surprised. Her hair was done up in many intricate braids, and Spock knew without counting that there were seventeen of them. Tomorrow there would be sixteen, as his mother was to cut off one each day until none remained, and on the eighteenth day she would shave her head entirely to begin anew. He knew the intricacies of the mourning ritual intimately, but it felt distant. Somehow, he still could not quite believe that his mother was doing this because his father had...had died.

“Spock? Is everything alright?”

He found he could not speak. His hands were shaking and he hid them in the sleeves of his robe, realizing as he did it that he had been doing so frequently of late.

But his mother knew him better than he knew himself. Her face fell, and her voice carried more pain than he could ever express. “I know,” she whispered, and despite the great physical distance between them he felt her words like an embrace. “It’s hard, isn’t it?”

He could only nod.

They sat in silence for a moment, each bearing the weight of their loss. Spock was thankful that she did not force him to speak. He attempted to gather the tenuous threads of his logic, but they slipped from his fingers like grains of sand. All that remained was the detritus, the emotions sharp as glass clinging to his hands. His body did not react in panic, but still he felt it like a great crushing weight on his limbs. The situations was almost humorous. Perhaps it would have made Leonard laugh.

“It is not logical,” he said after a very long time of this, his voice raw and cracked and seeming to come from far away. “His death was nearly two months ago, yet it is only today that it affects me?”

“Emotions aren’t logical, my son.” Her eyes shone with unshed tears, and he knew that it was only for his benefit that she prevented them from falling. She had always been a sympathetic crier. “Do you wish to discuss it?”

He knew that her words were carefully chosen—words a Vulcan might respond to. At the moment, he did not feel like a Vulcan so much as a scared little boy. His breath caught in his throat and he choked it down, swallowing thickly. “Why should there be a delay?” he asked. “I felt nothing of it, yet now I can do nothing to prevent these...feelings. They hurt me.”

She was quiet for a moment, and then, “Spock, have I ever told you of the very first time I met your father?”

He paused, uncertain, and then shook his head. “You have told me often of seeing him in the banquet hall and resolving to marry him.”

His mother laughed brightly. “Well, that much is true. But that was the second time I met him. The first time was nearly a year before. Spock, are you aware that when humans experience a great loss they often go into shock?” At his nod, she went on, “Vulcans, I believe, have a thing which is very similar. Perhaps it is an adaptation, or perhaps a learned response to what might otherwise cause unbearable emotional hardship which you cannot suppress. Whatever the cause, the first time I met your father he was crying.”

Spock sat back, stunned. He could not even fathom such a thing. His father—stoic and imposing and emotionless—crying? It did not seem possible. “Was he injured?”

“No, not physically. It had been only four months since his first wife had completed the _kolinahr_.”

“I see,” Spock said softly. He knew little of his father’s first wife, except what was a matter of public record. She was mother to his brother, Sybok, but even Sybok had been too young to remember her. Sarek had never spoken of her to Spock. That was logical; after the annulment of their marriage through the _kolinahr,_  all her past relationships would have been erased.

“Humans don’t quite understand the significance of the _kolinahr_ , I think,” she philosophized. “To us, it appears to be the closest Vulcans get to experiencing happiness for one another. Ironic, because it involves the absolute purge of emotions for the one being celebrated. She had begun the ritual when your brother was born, but in secret. Perhaps she did not mean to take it seriously. When she finally revealed this to Sarek it was too late for him to logic her out of the situation, and so she continued. I think perhaps he always hoped that she would fail the final step. That when the master touched her mind in the final moment, she would think of him, and return to him.” She trailed off, contemplative.

“She did not.”

“No,” she confirmed. “She didn’t. And her emotions were gone and she was excised from society, much to the celebration of all. Never before had a Sovereign successfully undergone the entire ritual. Sarek was highly honored and praised for his support of her, and for a time I think he truly believed that he was...happy for her.”

Spock contemplated this revelation. He thought of a young Sybok suddenly becoming a half-child and losing his mother, watching his father become a distant shell of a person. The thought troubled him.

“I learned all this later,” his mother said. “At the time, I just wanted to go for a walk through the embassy garden. I found him on the ground and at first I thought he had fallen, or that there had been an assassination attempt or something equally terrible. But of course he was only stricken with the emotion of it. It had been suppressed automatically, his feeling of loss, but not dealt with. It was too painful for him to deal with himself. He was very embarrassed.” She smiled slightly at the memory. “But eventually he saw the logic in not lying in the dirt, and we talked for a while. The next time I saw him _was_ at the banquet. He looked so...regal, so distant and reserved. It was strange for me to know all these secrets about him. I think that’s why he was so intriguing to me, this man who could be both a deeply feeling person and also do exactly what his people needed from him: feel nothing at all.”

“I see,” Spock said, and he did see. He understood why his mother was telling him this now. She had always been a step ahead. Perhaps she had expected this call and prepared the story especially for him. He felt discomfited in the predictability of his grief.

“I’m very sorry, Spock.”

He looked up at her, surprised. “Mother?”

She sighed. “I’m sorry I didn’t give you the tools you need to discuss these things with your husband.”

Spock glanced aside, feeling her words sharply. Her story had calmed him, but he remained only superficially in control of his emotions. He knew she couldn’t possibly approve of their deception.

But then she continued, and suddenly Spock wasn’t so certain anymore. “I know the bond helps a great deal with that, but it’s not the same. You’re still my son, and talking is still the best way for humans to work through difficult emotions.”

His mind whirred. “The bond.”

“Yes?”

“We have not yet been married in the Vulcan tradition. No bond has been created.” He didn’t mention that they had no intention of creating one at all.

“The bond doesn’t come out of the marriage, Spock.” She looked confused. “Sarek gave you the _kushel_ and the _ravot svai-tor_ talk, didn’t he? He _promised_ he would.”

“I recall the discussion,” Spock said hastily. It had been a particularly awkward moment in his childhood, and knowing that his mother had demanded it made sense. “The bond cannot precede the marriage.”

She shook her head, frowning. “Of course he would tell you that...He’s so—he was always so traditional. Bonds just _grow_ , Spock. You’ve probably got a few already and haven’t realized it. Affection, commitment, trust...If you have those with anyone you’re likely developing a bond. It’s just going to be that much stronger with your husband. Or, perhaps stronger isn’t quite right.” She visibly searched for the right words. “ _Different_.”

Spock had the sudden urge to ask her why she thought this. If she knew their marriage to be a sham, why was she telling him this? But the answer came to him before the question could fully form in his mind. He recalled the dizziness he had felt whenever Leonard had been clearly angry—and no, going even further back he could recall the hollow feeling whenever he was parted from him. Could it be that a bond truly was forming between them, but _wrongly_? If it were imperfect it would be more harmful to them than no bond at all. He risked Leonard’s sanity—his life, even.

“Mother, I...I must meditate.”

“I understand,” she said. “Please, try to get some real rest. I know it’s difficult with everyone expecting the world of you right now, but don’t let them boss you around.”

Spock looked at her softly, wishing as he always did that he could be a better son for her. “I believe Leonard would have something to say if I were to do so.”

She laughed and they said their goodbyes. Spock turned off the comm and sat at his desk for a long while, thinking. Finally he rose and stepped out into the common area.

He was surprised to see the lights out and Leonard lying on a sea of cushions in the center of the room. He could make out Leonard’s prone form clearly in the simulated starlight of Ensign Chekov’s gift. Leonard was watching the Earth stars pass by, flickering on the ceiling.

“Hey,” Leonard said softly.

Spock hesitated, but something drew him forward. Despite himself he still desired to be near Leonard. He knelt beside his husband and folded his hands over his knees. “You  have returned early.”

Leonard shrugged. “I just...had a feeling I should come home.” His eyes were a gleaming pool of light in the darkness. “I saw on the comm log you called your mother.”

“Yes.”

“That’s good.”

“...Yes.” Spock could not deny himself any longer. He lay down beside Leonard and looked up at the ceiling. It was easier, then, when he didn’t have to see the judgement in Leonard’s eyes. “I have begun to mourn my father’s passing.”

Leonard breathed quietly for a moment. “...Spock, I’m sorry.”

“It was not your doing.”

He sighed. “I mean I haven’t been a very good...friend. I’m here for you, if you need me.”

Spock nodded but kept his eyes trained on the ceiling. He could feel the sorrow heavy in his throat and chest, and he swallowed it down, disliking the pain of it but utterly unable to stop the feeling from spreading along his limbs.

“...Would you like me to change the stars to Vulcan?”

“No,” Spock said quietly, so quietly he wondered if Leonard had heard him. “They are nostalgic for you. Please, keep them.”

He could hear Leonard rustling, and then felt a burst of warmth as Leonard’s arm came closer to his. Not quite touching, but his heat radiated across the narrow gap between them. “I was just thinking about the crew,” Leonard murmured. “It seems so odd to be here when they’re all out there.” He gestured towards the sky, fingers flickering in the starlight, and when dropped his arm again he was pressed against Spock.

Spock doubted very much that the move had been intentional—but then he was struck with a terrible thought. Perhaps the bond, damaged as it was, had subconsciously driven Leonard to touch him. Spock knew that Leonard would never have touched him of his own volition.

But the contact was good. Grounding. It stilled the raging storm of his emotions, focusing them in on the point of contact. To his shame, Spock was too weak to push Leonard away. Instead, his arm moved seemingly without his direct input, and he grasped Leonard’s hand tightly in his own. He took in a deep breath.

Leonard held him back, strong and sure.

Spock let out his breath. He closed his eyes and held onto Leonard for dear life as they lay in the quiet of their quarters with the mechanical stars passing overhead, and the politics of Vulcan swirling on outside their door.

*

On a hospital ship patrolling the border of Federation-Klingon space, a young woman with her father’s eyes received a communique. She was in the middle of making her bed, but her hands stilled as the words rushed over her. She stood still for a long time after the communique had finished, looking out the window at the passing stars and thinking.

*

“See, I think this could work. If we just take a little bit out of the discretionary funds here, here, and here, and try to reduce spending long-term over here, then we should be able to fund the program indefinitely without anyone getting the short end of the stick.”

Simora looked up from the messy spider web of datapadds surrounding them, one eyebrow quirked in confusion. “The stick?”

McCoy grinned. “I just mean no one else should be hurting too badly.”

“Ah. More of your colorful Earth metaphors? You are certainly fond of them.” Simora looked slightly pained. “Regardless, it would be unwise to suggest drawing from this fund,” he tapped a datapadd with his finger, “As T’lan frequently accesses it to supplement offworld travel.”

“She uses ‘funds intended for the advancement of Surak’s 12th and 413th principles of logic?’”

Simora merely nodded.

McCoy sighed. “Alright, let’s try to find something else.”

They bowed their heads over the padds, reading and thinking in studious silence for a while. They worked at a sequestered table in the Hall of Feasting. It was quiet there, as usual, and the tables were large enough that they could spread out their datapadds as much as they wanted. It was also a bit cooler than a stuffy conference room, which McCoy preferred. The only problem was the servants who kept fussing over them, constantly asking if they needed any food or drink.

Like right now, as McCoy felt a presence behind him. “I don’t need any,” he said dismissively, not even turning to look. Something in the room shifted and he looked up to see Simora staring at him with wide, round eyes. McCoy spun around. “Spock!”

He knew he had made a faux pas, but Spock merely looked amused at him. Spock offered his hand and he accepted the kiss guiltily. “We are in recess,” Spock said. “And I have been made aware that you have not yet eaten today.”

McCoy grumbled. “We’ve been working.”

“Then you are due for a break. The problem will still be there at the conclusion of our meal.” Spock sat down beside him, and their arms brushed.

McCoy did feel a bit better at the contact, but he didn’t want to let Spock know it. “That’s exactly why I _don’t_ want to take a break.”

Spock ignored him deftly. “Esteemed Simora, have you a meal preference?”

“I do not, Sovereign.” Simora looked mildly panicked at the prospect of entertaining the prince for lunch. He started to stand. “I will take my leave, so that you may eat in peace.”

“You may join us if you wish.” Spock gestured and Simora hesitantly sat back down. “My husband and I have often taken our meals here in solitude. I am certain we would not mind the company.”

“You probably need to eat just as much as I do,” McCoy added.

Simora surrendered to them and they requested a quick meal from a servant who hovered nearby.

Spock politely asked what they were working on, and McCoy launched into an explanation that was really more like a rant. By the end he was flushed and waving around padds and Spock had abandoned his cooked vegetables, and they were both heatedly debating the most ethical way to disburse funds.

“Of course, you are correct that these orphans are deserving of education, food, shelter and other amenities, as are all sentient beings. Yet, T’lan will argue that _all_ these causes are worthy ones.”

“Who cares about the principles of logic when people are in trouble?”

“That is an emotional argument. The entire basis of our system of government is the greatest advancement of logic for the greatest number. If an argument can be made that sacrificing one hundred benefits one-thousand, then according to our guiding principles that sacrifice should be made.”

McCoy bristled. “Then maybe logic _isn’t_ the best basis for a legal system, if it means you can rationalize abandoning people.”

“Perhaps not.”

Across from them, Simora startled at Spock’s words. McCoy gave him an apologetic smile. “Don’t worry,” he said to Simora. “He doesn’t really believe that. It’s part of the human marriage contract that one spouse gets to win all arguments, and I claimed that right first.”

“I see,” said Simora. “I was not aware of that tradition.”

“Leonard, do not spread rumors,” Spock chided.

“Why not? I’m sure you’ve spread plenty about Vulcans. Weren’t you the one who had Uhura believing that Vulcan has no moon?”

“It does not.”

“Right, of course not. It just has its own orbiting body.”

“Delta Vega is caught in a reciprocal orbit and is not a satellite. Therefore it does not fall under the definition of a ‘moon.’”

“But it sits in the sky and looks just like one—and you _know_ that’s what she was talking about.” He gestured with the padd. “A moon is about _romance_ , Spock, not scientific definitions.”

Simora frowned. “Humans find the moon to be a romantic symbol?”

“It is one of their many illogical conflations.”

McCoy ignored Spock. “Of course we find it romantic! You go out with your sweetheart some night under the full moon and tell me that’s not romantic. Just sitting there, side by side, the moonlight washing over them and making their eyes light up as you make out with them.” He grinned at Spock, who was tinged slightly green with embarrassment.

“Leonard,” he said warningly.

“Please, Sovereign Spock,” Simora said, eyes alight. “This is truly fascinating. Unless...” He looked guilty. “I am forcing you to reveal private relationships details?”

“No,” McCoy said, blushing himself now. “Sitting under the moon is a bit difficult when you’re flying around in a starship.”

“Then perhaps you will be able to take advantage of Vulcan’s orbiting body.”

“It is not a moon,” Spock said, sounding faintly exasperated.

“Of course not.” McCoy rolled his eyes. “It just looks like a moon, acts like a moon, _quacks_ like a moon…”

The Vulcans looked at him with twin frowns, and he laughed before explaining the idiom, which quickly devolved into Spock and Simora commiserating over the ridiculousness of his “colorful colloquialisms.”

Their break went on for longer than it should have, but it wasn’t until a servant came by to fetch Spock that McCoy realized just how long they had been talking. McCoy grumbled at him for being such a distraction, and an odd look passed over Spock’s face. He turned inward.

“I will allow you to return to your duties,” he said quietly as he stood, offering his hand to McCoy.

McCoy frowned. Gently, he returned Spock’s kiss. The tips of Spock’s fingers were hardened—a result of all that button pushing, both literal and figurative. McCoy found himself smiling and he quickly looked away, suppressing the wild urge to tell Spock he loved him. He flushed with heat and berated himself. He was acting like a fool.

Spock glided away, saying nothing more.

McCoy tried to return to his work in the silence that fell after Spock left, but he found it difficult. He realized after a while that Simora was watching him closely. He looked up with a frown, and Simora visibly startled. “What?”

“You fought.”

McCoy’s blood ran cold. “What of it?”

“Forgive me,” Simora said. “It is only...Humans believe in the concept of ‘luck,’ correct?”

“We do.”

“I am attempting to explain my reaction in terms you will understand. Your luck at having found such a suitable partner astounds me.”

McCoy puffed up, equal parts pleased and embarrassed. “What makes you say that? _Spock_ is the one who lucked out on me.”

“He did,” Simora agreed readily, much to McCoy’s surprise. “I can see that you both harbor deep love for one another.”

McCoy wished that Vulcan’s gorge would open up and swallow him down. He hid his embarrassment in a datapadd. “Let’s get back to work.”

Simora didn’t seem to notice that anything was amiss. He bowed his head over a padd and went back to reading, and McCoy tried to battle his own distraction to read as well.

The words swam across the page. McCoy felt ill. He wasn’t sure how much more of this he could withstand. Their lunch had reminded him of the way things used to be—easy arguments on the _Enterprise_ , Spock’s casual teasing. He realized that he hadn’t had a moment’s rest since Spock’s proposal. He felt like he was constantly _on_. In public, he had to pretend that their feelings were utterly real, and at home he had to pretend he didn’t have them at all. It was exhausting.

He tried to shake off the feeling, reprimanding himself for being selfish. This wasn’t _about_ him. It was about giving Spock the best opportunity to rule his people, and saving Spock from the cruel logic of the council. Spock himself would have dismissed his emotions as typical human weakness. McCoy just had to get over it.

He tried to focus on the padd, his vision blurring with the force of his anger at himself. It was his own stupid fault for falling in love with someone who couldn’t possibly love him back—and at such a terrible time, too. Wrong time, wrong person, wrong _everything_. He needed to do better. He _had_ to do better. He needed to just forget all about this...crush, or whatever it was. This silly thing. He needed to just forget that he loved Spock.

Somehow, it wasn’t as easy as it sounded.

“I think I have it,” Simora said suddenly, pointing to the padd in excitement.

McCoy, grateful for the distraction, leaned in to look. He felt his eyebrows rise. “Huh,” he said. “That just might work…”


	12. Chapter 12

“You did what?”

“She was being irrational!” Leonard marched around the room, lurching from one wall to the other, face drawn tight with rage. “What did she expect me to do?”

Spock sat very still on the cushion, staring at Leonard blankly.

Leonard glanced to him, blushed, and looked away. “Simora and I presented our perfectly reasonable and _logical_ plan, and what does she do? Throws it back in our face! She refused to even listen to us. You can’t tell me it’s logical to be that thick-headed!”

“Leonard,” Spock said quietly.

“And of course Simora just looked resigned,” Leonard continued, fully ranting now as he spun around the room. “The poor guy is used to getting trampled over, but I am _not_ going to give up that easily. If T’lan doesn’t want to look at our proposal that’s fine by me. There’s more than one way to skin a cat, so I—I…” Leonard suddenly went pale and dropped to his knees before Spock. “How badly did I just screw up?”

Spock considered. “You have adopted one-hundred children just to spite the Esteemed T’lan.”

Leonard grimaced. “Well, when you say it like that it sounds bad.”

“Allow me to finish. You have adopted one-hundred children to spite T’lan, yet you have no plan for how you will care for them.”

“But, Spock, this way they’ll be citizens.”

“The council does not yet recognize our marriage, and now I doubt they ever will. T’lan has power and influence she will now wield against us.”

Leonard looked pained for a moment before his features flattened into a generalized anger that Spock, unfortunately, found to be _cute_. “What kind of logic is that?”

“The selfish kind.”

Leonard blinked. He clearly hadn’t expected Spock to say that. “Okay,” he said slowly. “We can fix this. Right now they’re Federation citizens through me. They can get an education on Earth.”

“Then they would not be schooled in the Vulcan tradition.”

“They aren’t being schooled in the Vulcan tradition _now_ ,” Leonard pointed out. He shuffled forward on his knees, gazing at Spock imploringly. “You really think the council won’t approve the marriage just because of this? I could—I could cancel the paperwork and we could rush the wedding. Then I can do it again.”

“T’lan now knows your intentions,” Spock pointed out. He neatly avoided telling Leonard that he was beginning to question whether they should be married at all. One catastrophe at a time.

Leonard kept talking, throwing out ideas and solutions as Spock considered the situation. Now that he knew their imperfect bond existed, and that it would only be strengthened by future contact, the ethical thing to do would be to break off the charade with Leonard. Leonard had not agreed to a mental bond—indeed, he had expressed concern over any access Spock had to his thoughts and emotions. He was the one who had asked Spock to stop sensing him during the finger-kiss. Clearly Leonard was a private person, and this pretense of love was wearing on him.

Spock reached out and grabbed a padd. He frowned at the little girl pictured there, one of Leonard’s newly adopted children. Her hair was cropped short and her face was impassive as she gazed flatly at the camera operator. Tesmur was her name. _Prosper_. Spock felt a sudden bolt of anger and displeasure at the thought of her parents naming her that, only to abandon her. He blamed the emotion on the imperfect bond.

“Very well,” Spock said, looking up at Leonard.

“Very well, what?”

“I shall adopt them.”

“You—” Leonard gaped, and then snapped his mouth shut with a click.

“You are correct,” Spock explained, feeling it was all quite logical and ignoring the nagging suspicion that maybe he was experiencing an unfortunate fit of emotionalism. “These children deserve an education, and it is quite clear that the current structure of our government is ill equipped to give it to them. If this is what is required, I will gladly file the paperwork today. I am the prince. There is little the council could do to punish me. But Leonard, we cannot adequately care for this number of children on our own.”

“They can live here. There’s plenty of empty rooms. And I’ll...I’ll figure something out. I’ll get teachers for them.” Leonard was beaming at Spock, radiating warmth through their imperfect bond.

Spock winced at Leonard’s radiance, wishing that Leonard’s smile did not make him feel...so out of control. He reached out and took Leonard’s hand, holding him still. “This may not be successful,” he warned. “And if it is not, we may find that these children will wish to have never known what might have been.”

Leonard sobered. He turned his hands over and gripped Spock back firmly. “It will work,” he promised. “We can do it together.”

Leonard’s open confidence pained Spock deeply. It was a promise Spock knew that they could not keep—indeed, that he must break. But he was selfish and could not bring himself to share with Leonard his fears about the growing bond between them. He realized he was squeezing Leonard’s hands desperately and he pulled away, turning from Leonard. “We must return to our practice.”

Leonard seemed to find nothing amiss. “Sure. Where were we?” He scooched back to lean on a cushion, his gaze following as Spock rose to gather his lyre.

Spock strummed a simple melody, and the music poured out of him like water. He was well practiced, but distracted. His movements felt stilted today and he found it difficult to concentrate. But the beat came to him, and Leonard sang the accompaniment in a voice that made Spock shiver.

Spock’s fingers stuttered on the strings of his lyre, his heart clenching with the force of Leonard’s song. He realized he was staring—caught in Leonard’s expressive features. Leonard’s eyes were closed, face relaxed as he listened to Spock play. He couldn’t see Spock staring and so Spock drank in the sight of him. His downturned mouth and gentle-looking lips, the messy waves to his brown hair, his brow scrunched in concentration as he followed the melody. Spock wished that Leonard would open his bright blue eyes and look at him. For a moment, he wished to be caught staring.

Leonard didn’t look. Spock continued to play and told himself that Vulcans didn’t feel disappointment.

They practiced into the night, until Spock’s hands ached and Leonard was yawning between measures. He began to put his lyre away, but Spock did not wish for their evening to end. He felt energized. He suddenly remembered their discussion with Simora, and before he could stop himself he was already speaking.

“Delta Vega is full tonight,” he said, surprising himself.

“Oh?” Leonard had draped himself over the cushion, one hand loosely curled shut beside his head. Spock wished to kiss him.

Perhaps Spock was selfish even to suggest such a thing, but he could not contain himself. His controls were tattered, useless against the force of his love for Leonard. “I have not yet retrieved a flower for you today,” he said softly. “Would you accompany me on a walk through the garden?”

Leonard hesitated, and Spock regretted asking. He said nothing as Leonard studied him. After a moment Leonard’s jaw set, as if he had come to an important decision, and he nodded.

They rose and gathered their shoes. Spock donned his heavy cloak to ward away the chilly night air.

They had to dodge servants, sneaking around the back corridors until they found an unguarded door. Leonard was stifling giggles by that point, and Spock felt warm and slightly exhilarated. Leonard was so close to him, the heat of his body palpable as they hid from prying eyes. They dashed out into the gardens and disappeared between the rows of creeping foliage.

“I haven’t snuck around like this since I was a kid,” Leonard whispered to him, looking up to the night sky.

Spock swallowed thickly at the sight of Leonard’s beautiful eyes lit by starlight. “We are not sneaking now.”

“No?” Leonard asked, smiling. “Just hiding from anyone who might be watching, is that it? Certainly not _sneaking_.”

Spock carefully didn’t smile back. “Certainly not.”

“No, of course not.” Leonard suddenly seemed closer than he was before, and he was looking at Spock as if he had never seen him so clearly. Under the pale blue light of Delta Vega, Leonard looked ethereally beautiful and distant. “You wouldn’t have anything to hide, would you Spock?”

There was something—something in Leonard’s question that gave Spock pause, but he could not contemplate it. “There is no logic in hiding the truth.”

“No, there isn’t. No logic at all.”

“Although I understand your concern,” Spock said, suddenly terrified. “I have had reason to wish you hidden in the past. Your...animated discussion with T’lan last week, for example.”

Leonard laughed and the spell between them broke. Spock took a shaky step backwards and scanned the horizon. A pale white _svai-mur_ caught his eye, and although Leonard was standing close enough to touch, the flower also reminded Spock of him. The petals curled inward to hide the deep blue center, almost shy in its beauty. Flowers often reminded Spock of Leonard.

“A moment,” he said, and went to pick the flower.

There were dozens of flowers wafting in the cool breeze, but he knew instantly which one he would choose. It had a long, straight stem, and the petals were soft as silk. It was smaller in his hands than he had expected. Delicate. He studied it as he walked back to Leonard.

He looked up, surprised to see Leonard watching him.

“Spock…”

In the dim light of night, Leonard seemed to vibrate with nervous energy. In fact, Spock could feel his embarrassment, his fear, his _staya enem-tor_ —the desire to be rendered invisible—all of it rolling across the length of their bond in punishing waves. Spock attempted to raise his shields but he could not keep Leonard out. Indeed, he had _never_ been able to keep him out. Leonard had always—would always—find a way through his defenses. The thought frightened and exhilarated him, and he knew his emotions were mixing with Leonard’s, flowing back across the bond in an endless, tense dialectic, swirling together in contradiction without resolution.

He could not allow this to continue.

“Yes?” Spock managed to say. He felt suddenly that they were moving closer, yet never close enough.He could not stop himself from approaching Leonard, from reaching out to rest his fingers on the cool skin of Leonard’s arm. Leonard did not try to stop him.

He could _not_ allow this to continue.

“I-I…” Leonard gulped visibly, his body quaking under Spock’s touch, and then he seemed to steel himself. His voice was soft, hardly a whisper, awkward yet perfectly intelligible. “ _Taluhk...nash-veh k’dular_.”

The pronunciation was off, but Spock knew what he intended to say. He could _feel_ Leonard’s intention flowing through him, warming him, and he had his own _istaya_ —the desire to let his love be known. The sudden desire to kiss Leonard which had overtaken him so many times before now seemed impossible to resist. He wanted to taste Leonard, to hold him, to be with him in soul. He could do so easily. He imagined it, imagined kissing Leonard here beneath the stars, flowers surrounding them. His hands in Leonard’s soft hair. Pressing their bodies close, holding his husband so that they breathed the same air, became of the same _katra_.

“I cannot allow this to continue.” He dropped his hand. He shoved aside the desire and the sadness and locked it away, feeling himself speak from a great distance. “I believe there is a problem.”

Leonard merely looked resigned. Perhaps he had expected as much.

The flower lay forgotten in the sand.

*

“Bones! I thought you’d forgotten about me.”

McCoy managed a smile. “Jim, is this a secure connection?”

Jim sobered instantly. “Just give me a moment.” He did...something while McCoy watched, and the screen fuzzed out before clicking back in. Jim hummed and fiddled with a few more things, and then nodded decisively. “There, that should do it. Now, what’s the matter?”

“Where do I even begin?” McCoy muttered to himself. He decided to start at the beginning, with the oppressive heat of Vulcan. He told Jim all about the council moving up every deadline and inventing new hoops for them to jump through, about the ridiculous duet he and Spock would have to play tomorrow—was it really _tomorrow?_ —about T’lan and her smug face, about adopting one hundred children (to which Jim’s face did a funny thing that made McCoy glare), and then about the latest debacle in the garden.

“Spock wants us to…” He choked. He had difficulty even thinking it, let alone saying it. “To...stop.”

“Stop? Bones, what are you saying?”

“He—I...He says that something has gone wrong with the marriage. It’s doing something to use that it shouldn’t do.”

“Something? Are you in danger?”

“It’s some kind of Vulcan voodoo. We’ve both been having dizzy spells. I didn’t anything of it—It’s so damn hot here that any reasonable person would feel dizzy. But, Jim, Spock says he’s started to sense my emotions!”

“I thought that was the whole point of the finger thing?” Jim tapped his fingers together to demonstrate, looking confused.

“Usually, yes, but I asked Spock to put a stop to that when—” He stopped talking.

Jim looked at him kindly. “When you realized you were in love with him and didn’t want him to find out?”

How could Jim possibly know that? McCoy glared at him. “What makes you think that?”

“It’s obvious, Bones. It’s _been_ obvious to everyone but the two of you. You know, they say that Spock is oblivious, but he doesn’t hold a candle to you.”

McCoy pouted.

Jim shrugged. “You’re twice as repressed as he is, you just aren’t as loud about it.” He sighed, and before McCoy could argue with him he changed the subject. “So, what are you going to do? I assume you’re afraid Spock is going to find out and want to call the whole thing off?”

That was uncomfortably accurate, but, “It’s too late,” he said quietly. “He’s already said he doesn’t want anything more to do with me.”

“Oh.” Jim’s face fell. “Bones, I…”

“I know.” He sighed and scrubbed his face with his hand. “He made it sound like it was my idea, somehow. Maybe it is? I don’t know. Who can understand how this mind-sharing stuff works? But tomorrow I’m supposed to flub the duet and the council will declare us an improper match and we can both...we can…” He took a deep breath and swallowed thickly. He wasn’t crying. He told himself that again and again. “Spock says that way we’ll be released from our obligation without embarrassment. Can you believe that?”

Jim sat silently for a moment, apparently digesting this information. Or perhaps he was waiting for McCoy to get ahold of himself. McCoy took advantage, breathing deeply and steadying himself and trying not to think about how Jim had called him repressed. Jim was always too damned accurate with his teasing.

Finally, Jim broke the silence. “Is that what you want, Bones?”

He looked up sharply. “I never like to break a promise.”

“No, I suppose not. In many ways it’s easier,” Jim continued philosophically. “You can get out of this marriage before Spock realizes your true feelings for him. Then you don’t have to deal with spending the rest of your life with someone who doesn’t love you back.”

McCoy winced. “That’s cruel, Jim.”

“Is it? I’m just saying what you’re thinking. I don’t need Vulcan telepathy to see it written across your face. I _know_ you, Bones. You’ve never been very good at believing you’re capable of being loved.”

“What are you—”

“Do you know how angry I was at you when you told me about that xenopolycythemia stuff?”

“Angry?”

“I was enraged! You’re always throwing yourself into danger for the good of others. You’d throw yourself off a cliff if it saved someone from a papercut!”

“You’re one to talk!”

“But at least I can do something about you throwing yourself off a cliff. I can—I can stop you, or throw my own damn self off, or at least _catch_ you when you fall. But a disease? I’m no doctor. There was never going to be anything I could do to stop my best friend from being taken from me.”

McCoy shuddered. He had never thought that Jim felt so strongly about it.

“It was pure dumb luck we found a cure for you, and you know it. Spock knows it, too. All of us are living a lifetime of second chances, existing on borrowed time. And now you’ve been given the best chance of all—you can actually _have_ what you’ve been wanting for so long! You can have the love you deserve, someone to support you and grow alongside you _and you won’t take it_!”

Silence.

Jim looked away from him, face twisted like he was hurting. “Try it, Bones. Just this once put yourself first. During the duet tomorrow, don’t screw it up intentionally. Play with him, not against him. Show the council—show the universe—show _Spock_ that the two of you are meant to be together.”

McCoy traced the tension in Jim’s shoulders with his eyes, feeling a pit forming in his stomach. “...We’ll come back, Jim.”

Jim deflated. “You’d better.”

“You’re my—” He didn’t have a proper word for it, so he just said, “I wouldn’t leave you alone. Spock wouldn’t, either.”

A little smile started at the corner of Jim’s lips. “I know, Bones. But you two had better hustle back. I still have eighteen months left out here and I can’t keep coming up with excuses to divert to Vulcan every weekend. Starfleet is starting to get suspicious.”

McCoy smirked. “You know,” he drawled. “You could just quit your commission and come out here full time. Spock and I are going to need someone to take care of things. Someone to look after the house, watch all these kids…” He laughed as Jim went pale at his words.

“I have it on good authority that it would be too hot there for my delicate Iowan sensibilities.”

Laughing, McCoy nodded. “But I bet you’d look cute in a sunhat with sunscreen across your nose.”

Jim smiled softly and glanced to the side. “So what do you think, Bones? How was that for a pep talk from your dear old captain? I do have a ship to run, you know.”

“A likely excuse. Janice runs that ship and you know it.”

Jim laughed. “She does at that.” He turned suddenly serious, and affected the air he often had when he wasn’t sure diplomacy was working. “Well, Bones? What will you do tomorrow?”

“...I’ll think about what you said.”

“Bones.”

“And I’ll let you know.”

Jim nodded slowly. “I suppose that’s the best I can ask for. Don’t be a stranger, Bones. And call Christine. She’s been mooning after you and Spock since you left.”

“I’ll do that.” He took a deep breath. Let it out. “I’ll talk to you again...after.”

Jim nodded. Magically, he didn’t seem worried, for all that McCoy felt lost and confused. Jim was too good at projecting confidence even when he didn’t feel it. “Good luck, Bones. Kirk out.”

He closed the comm and sat there for a moment, thinking. Jim’s words had struck a chord with him. If he was honest with himself he would admit that was why he had called his friend in the first place. Spock had seemed so sure of himself—so utterly convinced that the only proper response was to call the whole thing off—that for a moment McCoy had believed him. He could still remember what it felt like to stand in the sand while the temperature plummeted around them, shivering as Spock detailed to him why the connection that was growing between them had to be severed at all costs. He had truly believed that was what Spock really wanted.

Now, he wasn’t so sure.

McCoy decided to take a walk. He rose and went back into the common area and nearly lept out of his skin when he saw T’pol kneeling on a cushion, Uhura’s music box open and playing in her hands.

“What the hell are you doing here?” he asked, and then winced as she looked at him flatly.

“Your servant granted me access.”

“Zebed?” McCoy was ashamed to realize that he’d grown so used to the servants that he no longer noticed them. “But why?”

“This is an interesting trinket,” T’pol said, ignoring him. “This is the bridge of your ship?”

McCoy took a hesitant step forward. He wondered how long T’pol had been here. Had she heard him talking to Jim? “Yes, it is.”

“You are a doctor, though. This figure appears to be a representation of you. Why would you be present on the bridge?”

The question stumped him, because it seemed obvious. As he searched for words to explain the song played again, Spock’s heart wrenching melody twinkling out of the tiny box. The model turbolift doors swished open and his figure appeared, gliding through the bridge and towards Spock. “...It’s just where I’m supposed to be.”

His answer seemed to satisfy her. She closed the box with a deft click and set it aside, standing and straightening her robes. “I am going to get a cup of tea, and you are going to accompany me.”

“Wh-what?”

She was already heading for the door. Hastily, he followed after, surprised at how quickly she moved for her height and age. She lead him out of the compound and into the city streets. McCoy shrank back from the towering buildings and sea of people, keeping close on her heels. He wondered if it was appropriate for him to leave the compound like this. Spock had never told him not to, but it felt like a dangerous act, almost as dangerous as sneaking out to the gardens with Spock the night before.

T’pol said nothing until they reached the low, stone-hewn tea shop. Even then she only asked if he was allergic to _ch’aal_.

He sat by the window and gazed out at the passing Vulcan pedestrians. There weren’t any vehicles on the street in this part of the city, which puzzled him. He thought about strolling along the walk with Spock at his side until T’pol returned with a large cast-iron teapot and two mugs.

“Can I help you, ma’am?”

“I am quite capable, thank you.” She set down the pot and knelt across from him. “There is a ritual to drinking _ch’aal_ ,” she explained as she poured the steaming liquid. “But I will not bore you with the details of it. It is rather involved. Trip often expressed his distaste for the practice.”

“Trip?” he asked, taking a small sip of tea when he saw her do the same. It was unexpectedly spicy, and it left his tongue tingling.

She drank her tea silently, making him wait. She wasn’t really looking at him, but still he felt watched. “A human I once knew,” she said eventually. “You no doubt wondered on the first night we met why I was so comfortable around you when my colleagues were not?”

“Well,” he said carefully, trying not to be rude. “It was a bit unusual.”

She nodded. “His influence. You should be aware, Dr. McCoy, that the council is evenly split over its decision on whether or not to recognize your marriage.”

He glanced around and pitched his voice low. “Should you be telling me this? Here?”

“Regardless, I am telling you, and we are here.” She seemed amused. “Were the council to vote today I believe it would be a tie, with T’lan casting the tie-breaking vote. She has not yet made it known how she will decide on the issue.”

“I think I know,” McCoy muttered darkly.

“You may be surprised.” She took another delicate sip. “Your children will be arriving soon, correct?”

It felt surreal to hear her say that. He managed to nod and decided he could trust T’pol...a little bit, at least. “Tomorrow, before the ceremony. But Spock thinks I should, I don’t know, _un_ adopt them. He thinks it would be better if he was the only one with legal ties to them before the vote.”

“It is unclear how much your act of altruism will affect the council’s decision. Some find it to be a bold move, and Vulcans are not often fond of boldness. Regardless, it would be...rude, to cancel your adoption.”

He chuckled. “That was my thought as well.”

“So, which of you is it?”

McCoy frowned at her. “Is what?”

“I have noticed a certain tendency among humans for self-sacrifice. Whether it is sacrifice of the physical body, or one’s happiness and sense of wholeness, the tendency holds true. I know also that this tendency spreads to those around you. So, which will it be? Are you sacrificing your happiness for Spock, or is he doing so for you?”

He gaped at her. “I-I’m not sure.”

“Ah, then you both believe that you must sacrifice yourself for the other.” She reminded him suddenly of an old woman enamored with soap operas. Her eyes were alight with amusement and...something else. Something not so happy. “Of course, it is impossible to simply talk about it.”

He snorted. “That’s what you think. We _did_ talk about it. Just last night, in fact.”

“Indeed?” She seemed skeptical. “Then you must have reached an agreement which is tolerable to both parties.”

“I...we…” He frowned, growing angry with her prying. “That’s none of your business.”

“No?”

He grit his teeth. “You _don’t_ know what you’re talking about.”

“I know precisely. Spock is not the first Vulcan to wish to marry a human, nor will he be the last.”

For a moment he thought she was talking about Sarek and Amanda, but something in the tone of her voice gave him pause. The fight went out of him suddenly, and he wondered if that was Spock’s influence—if somewhere on Vulcan Spock was now inexplicably angry. “He says there’s a problem,” McCoy said quietly. “That we’ve been...growing too close.”

“We do many things to prevent the disruptions of logic. Chief among them, we avoid that which causes us intense emotion.”

“Seems like a pretty sad existence.”

“Sadness is an emotion.” She raised her brow at him. “Although you are not wrong. Finish your tea.”

He looked down at his cup, surprised to see it still there. He’d forgotten where they were. The tea had cooled enough that he could belt it down, and he did so quickly as T’pol stood.

“Now where are you taking me?” he asked grumpily, rising as well.

She adjusted her robes again. “To a place where we can meld.”

Her frankness nearly stopped him in his tracks, and he snapped back just in time to follow her out the door and down the street. A meld. That didn’t exactly instill him with confidence. Spock had melded with him a few times, but they had always felt...odd. He didn’t like the fact that another person could know everything that knocked around inside his head with just a touch.

More to the point, if she melded with him she would learn their marriage was a sham. Or worse, that it was a sham and McCoy really wished it _wasn’t_.

She took him through an unfamiliar part of town and into a large, sandstone building. She accepted a dataslip from a desk clerk and they rode the elevator up to the seventieth floor. There were a series of rooms there branching off like a honeycomb, and she lead him into one that had what appeared to be a fainting couch on it. She sat on the couch and folded her robes around her knees.

He stared down at her, trying to think of how to get out of this. Maybe he could pretend to faint?

Before he could speak, she looked over at the far wall, her face drawn in contemplation. “Are you aware that melding was considered an illicit act and was illegal for many centuries on Vulcan?”

“Illegal? No.” He came over to stand beside the couch, hesitant. “When was this? Before Surak?”

“The law was repealed less than one-hundred years ago.”

McCoy started in surprise. “But Spock goes around melding with anything that moves. He melded with a lava rock, once.”

That finally got her to look at him in confusion. But she clearly had a goal in mind for their conversation, and wouldn’t be deterred. “How quickly we forget the past,” she murmured. “Humans have a saying about learning from one’s mistakes.”

“Yes.”

“As individuals, we Vulcans are quite good at that. As a species, less so. We erase our mistakes rather than learning from them. Please sit.”

Nervously, he sat as far away from her as possible. One leg hung off the edge of the couch.

With a sigh she took his arm and tugged him closer. “I will vote to recognize your marriage regardless of what I discover here today,” she told him simply. “And I will tell no one of what transpires unless you wish it.”

McCoy studied her, searching for a sign that he should doubt her. But she looked perfectly sincere. He shook of the dregs of his fear and nodded, already closing his eyes. “Go ahead.”

He felt her cool hands against his face.

They breathed in together.

“...I see,” she said after a moment. He could feel her eyebrow rise. It was bizarre; it felt as though he were raising his own brow in surprise at the memories.

They went on.

“I see,” she said again. The other brow went up. On his own face, McCoy scrunched his eyes more tightly closed. “He believes the bond is improper?”

“Yes.” Slowly, they disentangled and he opened his eyes, looking down at her.

T’pol seemed contemplative. “He is mistaken. The bond between you is pure, if also still fledgling.”

His breath caught. “You mean—?”

“It will require work to grow strong, as with any bond. But you do not need to worry about it harming either you or him. Perhaps you did not ask for it, but it is here. Only a master would be able to dismantle it now, and none who are reputable would try.”

He felt like he had been hit with the stun of a phaser. “What am I going to do?”

“Indeed,” she agreed. “That is the question.”

“Thanks,” he muttered. “That was helpful.”

Her lips twitched. “I enjoy your company, Dr. McCoy. I would like it very much if you were to stay on Vulcan.”

He blinked in surprise. That had been very nearly a confession of emotion. He watched her fix her robes and realized suddenly that she wasn’t really straightening them at all. She was uncomfortable in them. She hated the yards of flowing fabric and longed for a more reasonable uniform. The same uniform she had worn...where? He couldn’t quite picture it, but it felt like home. He knew that she had given him this information as a small exchange, a thank-you for the meld.

“May I share what I have learned here with T’pau?”

“If...if you think it would help.”

“It will,” she said decisively. “Will you be able to find your way back to the compound?”

“Nope,” he said, rising quickly.

“Then I shall guide you,” she said with a small, secret smile meant only for the two of them, and then she did exactly that.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Go back to chapter 4 for the meaning of Taluhk nash-veh k'dular. ;)
> 
> There is one more chapter and an epilogue to come!


	13. Chapter 13

“Your name is Tesmur,” Spock said to the small, stone-faced girl. “Accompany me. I shall take you to your new quarters.”

She followed with apparent suspicion. “You are Spock,” she said after a moment.

“Yes.”

Her hair had grown longer than it had been in the picture. She brushed the strands from her eyes. “Where is your human?”

“You speak of Leonard McCoy?” he asked. At her nod, he turned away, choosing his words carefully. “He is assisting several of the younger children in acclimating to their new home. But you should not refer to him as ‘my’ human. Humans, like Vulcans, do not own one another.”

“That does not fit with available evidence.”

Spock could see that she was highly intelligent. He was glad, suddenly and surprisingly, that McCoy had done the illogical thing and adopted these children. Spock was glad and irrationally proud. He attempted to dismiss the feeling, but it lingered.

She was studying the walls of the compound carefully. “If he was unable to attend to us all, perhaps he should not have done so foolish a thing as bringing us here.”

“Perhaps,” Spock agreed. “But it is done. And you are our children.”

“For a day, at most. Then we will go back when the council votes against you.”

Spock was surprised that she knew about the latest political turmoil, although perhaps he should not have been. Even children denied an education would hear the whispers in the halls. He doubted there was a Vulcan alive who wasn’t following the unfolding events with gleeful (and logical) abandon. “Do you wish to go back?” he asked.

She considered the question. They arrived at her quarters as she thought. It was a small room off the Eastern corridor of the compound. She stood in the center of the room and turned slowly, taking in the sight of the computer console and bed, the stack of datapadds on the shelf, the chest full of her clothing which had been shipped ahead and several newer garments. McCoy had picked out something new for each of the children, based on their profiles. Spock recalled that he had picked out an all-black climber's outfit for Tesmur, although the significance of the choice was lost on Spock.

“I will stay for now,” she said with finality. “It will be better than stealing knowledge.”

Spock raised a brow. “Stealing knowledge?”

“I was quite known for it,” she said proudly. “I often entered the _lo’uk shi’dunap_ to steal information for myself and the other children. My record details the two times I did so...and was caught.”

Now Spock understood the significance of black climber’s outfit. In the night she would blend into the shadows. He would have to have a talk with Leonard—with McCoy—about what was proper and improper encouragement for young children.

“I see,” he said after far too long a pause.

She gave him a withering look. “You may go.”

He started to leave and then stopped. He was uncertain why he was letting her order him around. “You will be expected at the ceremony this evening. There is clothing for you to wear.”

“Fine.” She pushed her hair out of her eyes again and barely contained her annoyance with him. “If there is nothing else?”

There wasn’t. Spock left, feeling slightly off-kilter. He met and greeted the other new children as they arrived, astonished at how _many_ there were. Now that he knew all of them—every face and every name—he could not believe that there had ever been a time when he could move about on Vulcan and not think of them. The fact that Vulcan had a population of children it did nothing to care for...it was illogical.

Worse still, the children seemed to realize it. They were all old enough to recognize that their lives were wrong, but they also held out little hope that this new adoption would do much to improve their standing. Each was more sullen and distant than the last. He hoped that McCoy was having better luck with the younger children.

Spock realized that he likely would not have an opportunity to ask. After they intentionally botched the duet they would go their separate ways. The realization was painful. He had not spoken to Leonard—to _McCoy_ —since that night in the garden, when Spock had realized that he could no longer continue harming McCoy and maintain a clear conscience. He needed to put an end to his selfishness. The fact that he had tricked McCoy into bonding with him weighed on him heavily, and he hoped that the dissolution of their marriage would alleviate some of his guilt. It was too complex an emotion to deal with effectively through meditation.

He wondered, faintly, who the council would choose for him to marry instead. But the thought was fleeting.

What remained was the memory of McCoy’s shattered expression, the way he had stopped talking and only nodded, mute and devastated, in response to Spock’s explanation that their bond was wrong and needed to be broken. Clearly he had been deeply disturbed by their bond. It was the only explanation for McCoy's reaction. He knew that McCoy was a deeply private person, and therefore of course he would not want to know that Spock’s love for him had caused this to happen.

Spock bowed his head in shame and mentally chided himself. This was not the time to contemplate his failures.

He focused his efforts on the children. Regardless of what was about to transpire, he had a duty to ensure that they had the opportunity to lead full and complete lives. No matter who the council attempted to pair him with after tonight, he would guarantee them an education, a place to call home, and what stability he could offer. It was the least he could do.

He was mentally and physically exhausted by the time he was done showing the last child, a boy named Kerak, to his quarters. Kerak was merely fourteen and he had the gaunt, drawn face of someone who too often went without food. He reminded Spock of Leonard. Of McCoy, he corrected himself sternly.

The day passed by blurry and desolate, and soon enough Spock found himself pacing the stage of the Hall of Song. He reasoned that he was merely measuring the distance across the stage in preparation for their duet, and that his fidgeting had nothing at all to do with nervousness. The stage was a dozen paces long with two n-shaped chairs. Hundreds of cushions were lined up in neat rows before the stage in eager anticipation of the coming crowd. He stopped pacing and considered his lyre, tuning it once again until the strings were quivering with as much anticipation as he was. He gazed down at the instrument and contemplated what was to come, and then jumped as he felt a hand on his elbow.

“Assist me,” said T’pau.

Spock steadied her as she sat upon one of the chairs. She clutched her cane between her gnarled fingers and let out a sigh of exhaustion. She closed her eyes. Spock waited, watching her with concern. She looked very fragile suddenly, and old. Then her eyes opened and he realized that she was not tired at all; she was frustrated with him.

Her gaze pierced him. “Have you nothing to say?”

Spock opened his mouth, but indeed nothing came out. He bowed his head and discovered he was kneeling beside her. He was reminded suddenly of his ill-fated wedding, of supplicating himself to her as she officiated. Would she have been willing to officiate his marriage to a human? Now he would never know.

“I see,” she said after a moment of heavy silence. “Do you truly believe him so prideful? Or is it your own pride which clouds your judgement?”

He looked up to her, surprised. Before he could form a response the doors to the Hall of Song swung open and the audience began filtering in. Spock rose and helped her stand again. He watched T’pau walk down the steps to kneel on a cushion, turning her brief words over in his mind.

Was he truly too proud to love?

The council filed in and began filling out the cushions. The children followed them. There were so many of them that Spock’s head swam. Tesmur walked at the front, her eyes scanning for danger as she herded the other children. Spock was reminded painfully of Leonard—of McCoy—and his protective streak. He knew their performance was being broadcast across all of Vulcan and that somewhere his mother watched, half of her braids lost to mourning. He thought of her and hoped that she would not be too disappointed in him.

Spock sat. He picked up his lyre. He set his fingers to the strings, and played.

The song was a request. A begging. He begged the people of Vulcan to allow him an audience; he begged them to see and hear the offering presented by his spouse. The impassive faces of Vulcan’s finest minds, and also the council, turned to him as if by magic. For a moment, silence held, and he thought that McCoy would not step through the doors at all.

In that desperate moment he thought of standing in the garden and wished that he could take it all back.

But the doors opened.

 _Leonard_ , Spock thought, and realized that he could no longer be afraid to choose love.

He could not bear to correct himself for thinking Leonard’s name. He watched his husband glide towards him in a robe as dark and blue as the night sky, glittering with iridescent splendor as a reflection of Leonard’s beauty. There were flowers in Leonard’s hair, a crown of Denobulan bluebells woven with the white _svai-mur_. In that moment Leonard was like royalty—more regal and graceful than Spock believed possible for any mortal creature. His hands stilled on the lyre and the music was forgotten as Leonard gave him a small, secret smile.

Spock watched, awestruck, as Leonard stepped across the stage and reached up towards his crown. He tugged free one long-stemmed bluebell and presented it to Spock as if it were only the two of them—and indeed, the uncomfortable press of prying eyes seemed to fade away. Spock reached out and their fingers met, and Leonard’s smile grew.

Spock tucked the flower behind his ear, and then he began to play.

Leonard sang.

It was not what they had discussed, not what they had practiced, but it was precisely what they both needed. Leonard sang the myth of the twin sehlats, first sentient life on Vulcan. His accent was honey-rich and enticing as Spock played for him. It did not matter, then, that they were not precisely playing for the crowd. Leonard was there and that was all that mattered.

There was a light in Leonard’s cool blue eyes that soon had Spock standing, his fingers drawing the last few notes from his lyre. They echoed through the Hall of Song as a question already answered, and Spock reached out. Leonard was already reaching towards him as well, two fingers outstretched, eyes bright with fear and worry and desire and a dozen other things that Spock could not fully parse, and they met in the middle.

Spock felt a solid _push_ and he opened obediently to Leonard—could not have kept him out even if he wanted to. He could feel Leonard’s touch and comfort inside and all around and, with surprise, he opened his mind and _felt_ what Leonard wanted him to know. What they could not have explained with words.

Leonard smiled a not-so-secret smile, and it took every ounce of Spock’s control not to return that open joy before the whole of Vulcan. But he knew. He _knew_ now what Leonard felt for him.

They sat and finished playing for the council.

*

“The match is suitable,” said T’pau, and everyone had the good sense not to argue with her.

*

McCoy felt like he had lost his mind. He buzzed with nervous energy as he raced towards their quarters, and twice he had to backtrack to allow Spock to catch up because he simply wasn’t walking fast enough. He jittered and glared at Spock, who walked with calm elegance as usual. McCoy was giddy and happy, but also terrified, wondering what Spock would do when they got to their quarters.

He hadn’t flubbed his lines. He hadn’t hit all the wrong notes. He hadn’t come in too late or stopped singing too early, which were all things that Spock had suggested he do. But it was worse than that. Spock now knew all the secret thoughts that knocked around inside his head. T’pol’s latest meld with him had left him more knowledgeable about these things, and McCoy hadn’t been able to resist giving a little _push_ when Spock had accepted his kiss. He’d felt...something, but he didn’t have words to explain quite what it was. It was all confused and jumbled, but he _was_ sure that Spock had felt him. Spock knew exactly what he was feeling.

Spock knew he was in love.

The idea was still terrifying, but exhilarating. He just wanted Spock to say something! But Spock was silent on the long walk back to their quarters.

McCoy pushed his way inside and stalked to the center of the room. He spun around and put his hands on his hips, fixing Spock with a glare.

“Well?” he demanded.

Spock sat his lyre in its stand with exaggerated care before turning to McCoy and—oh, oh no. McCoy had _broken_ Spock, because there was absolutely no other explanation for what Spock was _smiling_.

“Leonard,” he said, and that one word was filled with so much unstated longing and affecting that McCoy felt his heart melt.

He tried to keep up his glare but knew he was failing. “You’d better not think you can get out of this with a little sweet talking.”

“I would never presume to do so,” Spock said softly. He stepped forward as if in awe, his robe twirling around his ankles.

McCoy gulped. “Well?” he asked, aiming for snappish but missing by a mile and landing somewhere between ‘pleading’ and ‘desperate.’ “Are you going to ask me?”

“What would I ask you?” Spock inquired mildly, his little playful smile dancing up to light his beautiful brown eyes. He was close, so close that McCoy could have touched him.

Whoops, he was touching him. He held onto Spock’s arm for dear life. “You know exactly what,” he said, his voice quavering a great deal more than he would have liked.

“Perhaps you should enlighten me?”

The damned fool was so close that McCoy was getting distracted. “Fine,” he snapped. “I’ll do it then!”

“Please do.”

“Spock...Will you marry me?”

Time stopped. McCoy realized he had closed his eyes. He was hyperventilating. He couldn’t breathe, but then he felt Spock’s long, cool fingers against the line of his jaw, drawing up over the swoop of his cheekbone. He opened his eyes and Spock was _there_ , looking like he was holding the universe in the palm of his hand.

They kissed. As kisses went it was chaste, gentle, just the dry brush of Spock’s lips against his and the urging pressure of Spock’s palm against his cheek. There was no lily scent now to overpower him. Just Spock, and McCoy was suddenly struggling to breathe for an entirely different reason. He was drowning. Drowning in Spock and he was a fool to ever think he could have lived without this.

Spock pulled back after an eternity, or perhaps a mere second that had stretched. His gaze was solemn, contemplative. McCoy really wanted to kiss him again.

“Leonard, you are aware that we are already married?”

McCoy glared at him. “I was being romantic.”

“Ah. It was successful, I believe.”

McCoy could see Spock biting the inside of his lip to prevent his smile from breaking free again. “You _believe_?”

“I know,” Spock corrected himself. “My apologies, _ashayam_ , I had forgotten that you retain the rights to win all of our arguments.”

“You’re always so pedantic,” McCoy muttered, distracted by the sudden realization that Spock was still holding him close. “Even when you know damn well what I mean.”

“I know you meant to tell me you love me.”

McCoy flushed with heat. “I…”

Spock looked at him kindly. “You were brave, Leonard, to allow me in. I had thought—perhaps _feared_ —that I had forced you to feel…” He dropped his hand suddenly from McCoy’s jaw and presented his first two fingers.

Easily, McCoy met them. He expected Spock to flood into his mind, to take over and colonize every corner—indeed, he would have accepted Spock with open arms if he had. But instead they merely touched.

Spock looked down, fingers curling slightly closer to McCoy’s, and asked, “May I?”

He closed his eyes. “Always.”

The touch of Spock’s mind was comfortingly familiar after so long without. He was gentle, soft, the smooth glide of paper under his fingertips. McCoy felt him logically, like a book opening to him. Spock was all linear sentences unfurling in stark procession, until suddenly there was a flower pressed between the pages, its little blue petals crinkled and distinctive and beautiful. And he turned the page and there was another. And another. Dozens, hundreds of flowers breaking up the monotony, and even Spock did not seem to have realized they were there, each adding a pop of color to the stark black-and-white that was his life. McCoy turned the page again there was a picture, a sketch: the corner of a smile he recognized as his own. The next page was a curl of hair. A twinkling blue eye. A grin. Strong hands. Another flower, this time tucked behind one rounded ear. And there was himself, gazing out from the page and he could feel Spock’s heart stutter just to think of him.

“Spock,” he said, voice cracking.

“Leonard,” Spock agreed. Slowly, he drew back, and although McCoy hated to feel him go he also knew that it was too much too soon. He was still reeling from the flowers, but _this_ … “Leonard, I…”

“Spock, I mean it.” He gripped Spock’s hand. “It’s the truth, what I said. I… _Taluhk nash-veh k’dular_. I meant it. It’s not some bond gone wrong, it’s _me_. It’s how I feel...about you.”

Spock seemed surprised. Even after all this, Spock was still surprised. He opened his mouth but no sound emerged.

McCoy chuckled fondly. “I still haven’t gotten an answer.”

“Answer?” Spock asked, confused.

He rolled his eyes. “To my very important question.” He grinned, and now that he was looking—really _looking_ —he could see Spock’s whole face light up in delight at the sight of his smile. “Will you marry me?”

Spock’s eyes glittered. “Yes, Leonard,” he whispered. “I will.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> lo’uk shi’dunap -- Great Library
> 
> Stay tuned for the epilogue!


	14. Chapter 14

“To love somebody is not just a strong feeling—it's a decision, it's a judgement, it's a promise.”   
― bell hooks, All About Love: New Visions   


_svai_   
(noun)

  1. the flower of a plant, especially one cultivated for beauty;
  2. bloom



McCoy was surprised at how calm he was.

He sat in the getting ready room and gazed up at the ceiling, daydreaming. He remembered their first wedding and how he had felt then—stressed, nervous, and a half-second away from fainting. If Christine hadn’t pushed him out he never would have gone. But now he felt downright relaxed. He could have napped, if he wanted to. Although he didn’t because it would have wrinkled his robe.

He knew it was because he and Spock had finally, _finally_ talked like reasonable adults. They had talked for hours, and then days, until McCoy felt like his jaw was going to fall off. And then there had been the kissing, which had made his jaw tired for a very different reason. He still felt warm and fuzzy as he thought about the small, joyful smile Spock seemed incapable of suppressing these days. He had inspired that smile. _Him_. He couldn’t believe it. It still didn’t seem possible that opening himself up to Spock could go so well.

But it had, and now here he was lounging around on his wedding day waiting for the ceremony to start. He was sweating profusely under the heavy robe, but other than that he was golden. Really.

He only wished their crew could have been here.

He closed his eyes and dabbed at the sweat beading on his forehead. The crew… Jim had said he would do everything he could to get out here, but even his astonishing luck couldn’t work miracles. At the last second the _Enterprise_ had been forced to divert course and rendezvous with a hospital ship. McCoy hadn’t heard anything from them since Jim’s last message.

Maybe it was selfish to want Jim and Christine and the rest of the crew by his side. After all, he’d had all of them—the whole crew that he considered his family—at their first wedding. But it was different knowing that this one was the real deal. There was no subterfuge, no lying, no misdirection. He didn’t have to put on a show. He could just...be, and he wanted his family there to see him. They were really all he had left.

He sighed and draped his arm over his eyes. Maybe that was what was really bothering him. The crew was his family, yes, but they weren’t the only family he wished he had. When it had just been pretend, a fake-wedding, it hadn’t felt as important, but now…

“Well don’t you just paint a perfect picture of discontent?”

“Jim!” McCoy startled upright in his seat. “My god—what are you doing here? I thought—”

“Mission let out early,” Jim said breezily, waving away the question. He grinned his thousand-watt smile. “And I figured you’d want backup in case another fight broke out.”

McCoy looked at him dryly. “We’ve already confirmed you’re useless in a fight against a Vulcan.”

“Hey, that’s no fair. You two ganged up on me.”

McCoy smiled at Jim’s pout. “Who else is here?”

“I instituted shore leave and, wouldn’t you know it, the whole crew decided to take advantage. Pure coincidence they wound up at the royal wedding. But really…” Jim glanced over his shoulder and down the hallway behind him. “There’s just one person you probably want to see.”

McCoy squinted at Jim’s typical enigmatic musing, but then his eyes widened as Jim stepped aside. A young woman took a hesitant step into the room. Her long brown hair was done up in a simple bob, but he could see the cowlick in the front was giving her trouble. Her blue eyes glittered with a challenge that was matched in the set of her jaw. She was determined. _Ten years_ , he thought _, but I would know her anywhere_. And then he started crying.

“Joanna.”

His tears seemed to relieve her. She relaxed suddenly and fully, and took a hesitant step forward. “Dad.”

“I-I wasn’t expecting to see you.”

She glanced away. Shrugged. “I didn’t know I would come.”

He wiped at his face and pretended he wasn’t sobbing his eyes out. “I’m glad you’re here.”

Joanna suddenly got a determined look on her face. She marched across the room and tugged him up and into a hug. He’d forgotten—he couldn’t believe—she’d gotten so _big_. She was an adult. A young woman with a life of her own. His crying never really stopped, but it got easier to handle.

“I’m sorry I didn’t respond to your message right away,” she muttered into his shoulder.

He laughed. “That’s fine. I know how busy you are.”

“Thankfully, Captain Kirk was in the neighborhood and was able to come get me.” She pulled away and looked at where Jim had been standing, but he wasn’t there. He had left to give them privacy.

“Dammit, Jim,” McCoy muttered to the place where he had been. He’d have to give Jim an earful about sharing vital information—but later. Much later. For now, he was just ecstatic that Joanna was here. “We have a lot to catch up on.”

She grinned. “You’re getting married!”

“Yes,” he chuckled. “I am.” Distantly, the sound of a gong reverberated through the courtyard, and he shivered in anticipation. “Right now, in fact. I have to go.”

“I’ll go with you,” she said. “And we can catch up later.”

“Thank you,” he said suddenly. “For, well...For being here.”

“Of course. You should have your only child at your wedding.”

“Only child,” he muttered, shooing her out of the room. “Funny you should mention that…”

There was a rush to get Joanna a bell and install her in McCoy’s procession. She stood between Tesmur and Kerak looking discombobulated at the huge line of children trailing after her. Tesmur gave her a sympathetic look and showed her how to ring the bell in time with the others. In front of him, T’pol lead the way with Jim to her right. How Jim had managed that role eluded McCoy, until he realized that Jim was flirting innocently with her. He chuckled and then tried to look innocent as T’pol glanced back at him with a raised eyebrow.

T’pol began to walk.

McCoy followed her up the mountainside amidst a cacophony of jingling bells. The sound was deafening, but distracting, and McCoy didn’t realize he’d managed to work himself into a last-minute panic until he crested the ridge and saw Spock standing there. All around him the rest of the crew grouped tightly, crammed into the tiny courtyard shoulder-to-shoulder, eyes all trained on him, except for Spock who was turned into a conversation with Christine. As the procession approached she turned to look at him with a bright, happy smile.

His stomach dropped. For a split second his worries resurfaced—his utter conviction that he wasn’t good enough for Spock chief among them. But then Spock turned to him and McCoy saw that he was holding a single flower. A Denobulan bluebell.

His worries washed away.

The bells stopped.

McCoy walked to him, limbs heavy-yet-weightless, as if he were in a dream. Spock looked so calm and elegant and beautiful as he bowed his head, concentrating on pinning the flower to McCoy’s robe. Spock smoothed down the wrinkle of fabric with the palm of his hand.

“They match your eyes, _ashayam_ ,” Spock whispered. It was so quiet that McCoy was certain he had not meant to speak aloud.

McCoy had to swallow several times before he could say anything, either. “Are you ready?”

Spock shared a secret smile with him, a smile that said he was barely containing his excitement.

McCoy grinned back. “Then let’s do this.”

They took their positions. Spock rang the gong and T’pau’s voice washed over them from somewhere in the crowd of people, and suddenly they were married. It took less than a minute.

The crew erupted with excitement. Scotty was crying into Sulu’s shoulder. Chekov threw a handful of rice at them. Uhura picked Christine up and spun her around as they whooped for joy. McCoy thought, _oh my God, I’m married_ , and he must have said that out loud because Jim clapped him on the shoulder and laughed right at him. And then Spock was kissing him with his long, calloused fingers and also with his lips, which had all the Vulcans looking away with embarrassment and the _Enterprise_ crew sighing with contentment. McCoy grabbed him by the ears and tugged him in, giving him a kiss that got the crew riled up with cheers and laughter, and when he pulled back Spock looked like he’d been hit with a phaser set on heavy stun.

McCoy giggled.

“Bones, does this mean we have to get you a second set of wedding presents?”

McCoy couldn’t look away from Spock. Not that he wanted to, anyway. “You’re damn right it does,” he growled with faux-grumpiness, and then he reached out to kiss his husband again.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thanks for joining me on this wild ride! I hope you enjoyed the fic. :)


End file.
